Way Back Home
by vlalekat
Summary: FO4/FNV crossover: John McDonough wasn't always Hancock or a ghoul. After his brother is elected mayor and kicks all the ghouls out of Diamond City, John tries to help as many as possible adjust to life in Goodneighbor. Eventually he makes his way to Vegas, where he runs into Courier Six, a ruthless woman with a bullet in her brain, a chip on her shoulder, and a Strip to liberate.
1. Why I Left the Homestead

Way Back Home: Why I Left the Homestead

Notes: This came about because I included a throwaway joke in Games We Play about Hancock visiting New Vegas and discovering Gommorah. A commenter and I then talked about what that would be like and...well, here we are.

* * *

 **January 2282**

They stood in the stands, looking down on the market below. Martin was taller, bigger, rounder; his hands clutched the rail like raptor claws. He leaned forward, a strange smile playing at the corners of his lips, barely visible under his mustache. The golden child, the one with the ambition, Martin had finally been voted into office as the Mayor of Diamond City three days ago, just two weeks shy of his forty-third birthday. The smile, the creepy one, _broadened_ ; it made his mouth look strangely full, as if there were too many teeth crowded inside.

John alternated his gaze between the bizarre image of his brother - the bird of prey, lying in wait over the city they both called home - and the shattered ghoul families with their battered suitcases making their way to the gate. The more he saw, the angrier he became. How were these people - because they were still people, even if they were irradiated - how were they to _survive_ without the safety of the walls around them?

He'd hoped - foolishly, he now realized - that if his brother was elected, all that 'Mankind for McDonough' crap would just prove to be big talk, a disgusting strategy to himself elected. He'd thought maybe it would be forgotten or dropped in favor of some other policy change.

He'd thought wrong.

Below them, the marketplace was silent except for the murmuring of Myrtle Staunton, who fought with the clasp on her suitcase, and the mewling of her cat, clutched tightly in her arms. So many people - so many fucking people -

John turned to his brother one last time to beg. To try to reach the boy he'd once known, the one who might not have always been the kindest or the brightest, but who somehow always held all the cards. Sometimes appealing to his better nature had worked; it was worth a last try now.

"Martin," he croaked. His voice was low, little more than a whisper. He cleared his throat, waiting for Martin to turn to him, but the bigger man's eyes were locked greedily on the scene below. " _Martin._ "

Martin turned, his smile even creepier head-on. There was something too slick about him now, too...precise. As if an alien had come down and put on his brother's skin like a suit.

But then again, it wasn't as if John spent much time with him anymore. Not since Mother died. Maybe this was just...how he looked now. How he acted.

Who he was.

"What is it?" The beatific, creepy grin never wavered, nor did it reach his eyes.

"Please. You don't...you don't have to do this."

Still, Martin smiled. "Do what, John?" His voice was too silky, too calm; his voice was a razor wrapped in silk. John felt a thin prickling sensation under his skin, as if his very body was repelled by the dead look in his brother's eyes.

"This," he gestured, trying not to get too riled up. Rage, fury - strong feelings were never the way to convince his brother of anything. For a moment, the old image of his brother at eight and dissecting a disabled bloodbug flashed in his mind. Proboscis gone, the misbegotten creature's limbs and wings held down with rocks, and Martin up to his elbow in blood and ichor, pulling the insect's insides apart as it wrenched miserably, its massive eyes glinting in the sun. Martin's floppy blonde hair dotted with specks of blood.

"This? You mean, giving my voters what they want?" Martin's eyes narrowed a hair, his smile dropping almost imperceptibly. John had the sensation of wading into a lake, unable to see the bottom.

"Uh, yes. They're...they're _people,_ man."

"No, brother, they're certainly not people, not like you or me. They're _ghouls._ " He said the last word as if it were a dirtier one, unconsciously wiping his hands on his patched vest, as if there mere thought of it would sully him.

"They'll die out there."

The smile returned at this, in full force, and so eerie John could actually feel his skin crawling, like it was physically trying to move his body out the door, whether the rest of him wanted to go or not. He realized, too late, that this was exactly the wrong thing to say; his brother, whoever he had become, didn't see any issue with that. It seemed to excite him, to energize him.

"They're not my problem anymore."

John couldn't stand this any more. It was too ugly, too grotesque, to wrap his head around. He was never much for words, though - instead, his arm hauled off on its own, clocking his brother in the face with a powerful right cross that hit Martin in the left eye, rocketing his head backwards. Martin tipped on his ass, arms flailing, and landed with a loud thump on the floor. John stood over him - for the first time in nearly forty years, he realized - with his fists still clenched, panting. His right hand ached but he didn't dare show it; he was too angry, too scared.

"I think you should go before I tell Security that you're no longer welcome here." Mayor McDonough stood carefully, using one hand on the railing to help himself up. Again he wiped his hand on his vest, and then patted his eye gently, testing the bruise blooming there. It was already becoming puffy, an angry red welt rising and didn't open well. "Collect your things and be gone before sunset."

His home. His brother was kicking him out of his _home._

John looked down from the stands at the city below. The market was opening up, all the vendors but Crazy Myrna back at their stalls, trying to pretend it was just another day and not the day that a third of their population had been forcibly removed. Bobby Driscoll's weapon stand was ominously empty; Bobby himself had been one of the first to leave this morning, taking his daughter and wife in the first rush of ghouls to leave the city.

None of them had wanted to be removed by force.

"This is _wrong,_ " he said, one last time, turning his back on his brother and heading down to the elevator.

* * *

John's things, such as they were, didn't amount to much. The furniture was all junk, just like everything else in the wasteland. He had some clothes, a few spare boxes of ammo, some guns. He packed up what foodstuffs he had, and his chem stash, and strapped on his armor. He hurried, hoping he'd be able to catch up with some of the families that had left; maybe some of them wouldn't have gone too far. He felt the bag of caps; not much. He hoped he'd be able to make his funds last.

They were going to need help. It was too dangerous in the ruins to go alone.

He thought about taking a hit of Jet for the road. He had the inhaler in his hand, ready to go, and then paused before stuffing it in his backpack. It'd be a relief to forget all this, to soften the edges, even if only for a little while - but if he was going to be any use to anyone else, he'd need to be sharp. He stowed it away regretfully - _tonight tonight tonight,_ his brain thrummed achingly against his skull - and instead took three Mentats out of their battered metal tin, the hinge squeaking open and closed. He swallowed them fast, licking his teeth after to try to lose the unpleasant chalky film they left.

He looked around his small shack one last time, then closed the door behind him.

In the market, there was the distinct feeling he was being watched. Chatter seemed to stop as he passed people, only to resume the moment after he passed. He could hear a whisper as he walked past the barbers, Kathy saying something to her son about how "he punched the new mayor."

"Why, ma?" The boy was gawky, in his late teens although he looked younger, and his voice was still reedy. John remembered him visiting Molly Olson a lot; the older woman loved to play cards, and kids didn't care if she was a ghoul.

"I heard the whole thing. It was because of the ghouls," came the low answer from a security guard behind him, bat held stiffly. "But you didn't hear it from me." There was a quiet mumble he couldn't catch from Kathy, something that sounded affirmative.

If his brother was forcing him to leave, at least the people knew why, John consoled himself as he adjusted his pack. Before he started down the stairs, he cast his eyes up, squinting in the sun, trying to find his brother. But Martin was gone, the balcony empty.

He'd been worried about missing the others, but they were still standing outside, just beyond the gate, just outside of safety. A large clump of ghouls, their eyes sad, their faces lost. Friends, all of them; looking at their angry expressions, John couldn't blame them. It was his brother, after all.

He was angry too.

Mark Olson looked at him, watery brown eyes taking in John's pack, his nervous fidgeting. "He kick you out too, smoothskin?"

John nodded, not trusting his voice to stay steady. To his right, a hand found his; Molly Olson stood there, her face contorted into something approaching sympathy, her black eyes bottomless and glittering. Her grip was firm, and she squeezed his hand gently before letting go.

"He's one of us, Mark. I didn't raise you to be so hateful."

A sigh came from Mark, and the rest of the crowd seemed to relax. Kent Connolly, toward the back, seemed to perk up a little; the old guy never handled anxiety well.

"I just don't know if I trust him and...his people."

"Mark!" His mother's voice was shocked, angry.

"No, Molly, I understand. McDonoughs haven't done much for you folks," John cut in. Mark began to nod, and behind him, the ghouls gathered closer, some of them nodding as well. Behind them, the gate began its loud, slow descent, the rusted gears groaning under its weight. He could see Myrtle Staunton clutch her cat closer, despite the creature's desperate mews to get free.

"I have an idea," he began, raising his voice. "I know a place you folks could go. Somewhere safe, where everyone is welcome."

 _I hope everyone is welcome,_ he thought to himself. _Vic's not always easy or kind, but they don't have a lot of options right now, not with how late it's getting. And it's better than dying in the ruins. It's gotta be._

"Oh yeah?" That was Greg Martinosky, way at the back. His voice was low, like the rest of theirs, gravelly and distrustful. "Where is this magic fucking Shangri-La?" His wife knocked him gently in the arm, hissing something about language.

"Goodneighbor," he said. "Goodneighbor doesn't care if you're ghouls."

"Because it's full of _criminals,_ " Greg spat again, raising his voice. His face might be hard to read between the flaked-off skin and exposed muscle, but his tone made his meaning clear.

 _Fuck you,_ his tone said.

"And chems!" John couldn't tell who said this one; all he knew was that he was losing them, all of them, and he couldn't let that happen. These were city people, some of whom hadn't been outside the walls in years. They wouldn't know how to survive out there. They needed walls, armed guards, the chance to be themselves.

"Please!" He raised his arms, looking around. There was a battered wooden crate lying on its side near the gate, and he leapt onto it, waving his arms at the crowd as they turned, starting to walk away. "If you don't want to stay there, that's fine. I understand it may not be where you want to make your home. But please - the ruins are dangerous. I just -" his voice cracked but he continued on, desperation speeding his words. "I don't want any of you to die out there. At least come with me today and then tomorrow...if you don't want to stay, we'll figure something out."

The crowd stood quietly before him, all of them half-turned away, quietly murmuring to each other. It might have gone on forever, the bunch of them stuck in this limbo, if Kent Connolly hadn't spoken.

"I trust you, John." His expression was so genuine, so sweet, that John could've jumped down and kissed him. "I'll go with you."

The talk among them became louder, and Kent walked through the crush of bodies back to the massive green wall, standing directly before John. He looked at the rest of them with his guileless smile, as if urging them on. After a moment, more ghouls turned, then a few more, until a group of about thirty stood before him. The rest filtered out, away into the crumbling maze of the ruins, and John began to wonder just how, exactly, he was going to manage getting them all to their new home.

* * *

He didn't get to stop moving until well after three the next morning. He'd spent his day ferrying groups of four or five or six through the ruins to Goodneighbor, finding someone to take them in, and returning for the next. He pulled some string with Irma and got Kent a room at the Memory Den. Daisy, furious at the news, agreed to take Mollie Olson's whole family, at least for a few nights. He pulled caps out of his own pockets and booked rooms at the Rexford for a week for those he couldn't find places.

Now he sat on a barstool at the Third Rail, trying to ignore his aching feet and the sounds of Vic and his boys laughing drunkenly behind him. The bar wasn't his first choice, but when he thought about it, he had no place to go. The streets weren't safe, the Rexford was clean out of rooms, and he couldn't ask Irma or Daisy for a place to stay, not after they'd already opened their homes up to the wayward ghouls he'd foisted on them. Maybe he could cuddle up to K-L-EO, he thought with a private chuckle. She'd sure be cozy, all those metal angles and sharp joints.

There was another peal of laughter behind him; Vic had his hands on a girl, couldn't be more than twenty, with long blonde curls and tits like an angel's, and he was smacking her ass in front of the rest of them. She looked shamed, her cheeks pink and eyes downcast.

John looked back down at his drink, too tired to do the right thing. He knew he should do something, say something - but he couldn't fight anymore, not today. Instead he took a last drag of his cigarette and crushed it out in the scarred yellow ashtray, adding another butt to the pile heaped there.

He stood slowly, tossing a couple extra caps down on the bar as a tip, and downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. It was hot and sour and spicy all at once, and in his belly, he felt the fire. He supposed he could head back to the Memory Den, maybe use a few of his remaining caps to buy a lounger for the night. Irma might say yes to that - and if not, maybe he could work the debt off another way. The idea made him smile distantly; unless things were tight, she was usually willing to let him pay her in trade when he needed something.

As he walked past Vic's table, he caught the eyes of the girl at Vic's table. They were blue, huge and round and scared, and he tried to apologize with his face, but she just looked away. The door swung shut on her pained squeals, and he walked across the square to the pink-lit door of the Memory Den, ready to be done with this horrible fucking day.


	2. Song of My Loneliness

Way Back Home: Song of My Loneliness

Notes: I really struggled with writing this chapter at first. I knew where I wanted it to go and yet still had a hard time getting it down. The secret I learned to writing Hancock? Lots of booze.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, John tried to make good on his promises to the displaced ghouls. He visited settlements within a day's walk and convinced Jack and Diane Marx to join the farmers at County Crossing; Frankie Jones went up the coast to Nordhagen. A few days after that, he found a new settlement: a giant concrete hole in the ground full of water, perfect for growing tarberries - and now occupied by Wiseman and a few of the others who'd left Diamond City at the same time. The Olsons went there with him the following day; Molly, bless her heart, had thanked him for finding some of her old friends, and when he'd walked back to Goodneighbor the next day, he'd done it with his head held high.

He was trying, working as hard as he could to find them all the right places to go, but some of them were too impatient, too anxious to keep living in Goodneighbor, even for a week or two. One morning he woke up - well, okay, one afternoon - and ten or twelve had left early that morning, fleeing into the ruins with few weapons and - so far as Daisy knew - no real idea of where they were going. The next day, another couple had fled; the day after that, four.

All he could hope was that the ones who left without his help were safe in the ruins, that they'd made it somewhere intact, or as intact as ghouls ever were. He couldn't blame them, anyway - the day after they'd arrived, one of Vic's boys had gone around to all the newcomers, extorting protection caps from them. He'd tried to convince Vic that this would hurt more than help, but Finn and Ogre had thrown him back into the street, laughing the whole time. John wasn't a big man, and while he could be vicious, he knew beating the shit out of the two of them wouldn't get those ghouls their caps back.

The only one left of the thirty-four refugees that had followed him to Goodneighbor was Kent Connolly, still staying at the Memory Den. John made a point of visiting him every couple days; the old-timer was obviously delighted to have any company, although he seemed to have a soft spot for John, who made it a point to bring Kent a box of snack cakes or a bottle of Nuka-Cola.

After his visits, he'd take something and go see Irma. Sometimes she'd let him get into a lounger for a few hours and - if he was lucky - he'd get to relive a great high, or a particularly good fuck, or the night that he and Mikey Collins got into it with a couple super mutants down by the river. Sometimes, though, things would go sideways and he'd find himself standing with his brother again, watching Martin's slimy smile as they watched the ghouls leave Diamond City.

* * *

John had spent the day at the library, scavenging and exploring the old stacks. He was headed back to Goodneighbor with a sackful of gifts - a couple mysteries for Daisy, some old holotapes for Kent, some guy called the Silver Shroud, even some chems for himself he found stashed in a broken safe - when he heard the screaming. A woman's voice, and it was hard to figure out where it was coming from. He crouched, grasping his shotgun in both hands and checked that it was loaded. He cast his eyes at the canyon created by the smashed office buildings around him, ears seeking the echo of a woman screaming.

He should go about his business; it would be getting dark soon, the winter sun setting alarmingly early. He should head back to Goodneighbor, to a drink at the Third Rail and a huff of Jet and Irma's warm bed. He should -

His ears prickled at the next scream and he turned, heading towards the sound, now that he'd located its direction. He was never much for "shoulds".

John dropped low and crept along the shadow of a parking garage, keeping one eye half-turned to the open structure beside him, and paused at the next scream. It was definitely coming from in there. He inched forward into the entrance and looked around. The rusted corpses cars lined the inside of the parking garage, some still neatly parked between white lines and others pushed onto their sides and even burned.

The scream came again, from above and to the right. He checked his shotgun again and worked his way slowly up to the next level, slinking behind cars and keeping his eyes open. There was a flapping sound to his left and he started, looking for it, then relaxed as he realized it was just the fabric hanging loose from the roof of a destroyed car, fluttering in the breeze that blew through the open sides of the parking structure.

He walked up the ramp, following what sounded now like whimpering, a woman crying in fear or perhaps in pain. His muscles were hot in the chilled air of the garage, his brain sluggish - that's the only reason he could come up with later for the fact that he didn't hear the beeping approaching him until it was almost too late.

It took him far too long to see the suicider careening around the corner above him, the brute grunting and groaning as he ran down the drive. Instead, John's eyes focused on the woman behind him, on poor Myrtle Staunton, still clutching her cat, tears glistening in her bloodshot eyes.

Time seemed to slow - there was just the sight of her, trapped in that cage between two cars, screaming for help as three mutants stood around her, mocking her despair in their stilted tones. His vision shrank then, as he noticed the suicider coming ever closer, his lips pulled back in a horrific grin, a tortured scream issuing from his throat as each step brought him closer.

Closer. _Closer._

John aimed, took the shot, and missed, hitting a car farther back. Myrtle wailed, the mutants around her turned. There was a high-pitched shriek where the metal punctured, and he aimed again. Only one shot, and then he'd have to run, reload, hope for the best. He took a deep breath, aimed, fired -

The suicider went down. The nuke stopped beeping.

And then everything blew.

When John came to, it was to silence and the flashing of flames around him. His whole left side ached; his hands scrabbled, searching for his shotgun, found nothing but pavement and rubbish. With some effort, he cranked his eyes open and looked around. For a long time, he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing: a parking garage, with two cars blown out and smoking up the ramp from him. His eyes gradually focused, and he was able to make out the large green figure of a dead super mutant thirty, maybe forty, feet away, up the ramp, bleeding from a large wound in his chest. A mini nuke had rolled partway down the ramp, towards him, glowing red on one side from the fire up the way.

He sat up, his head protesting heavily, and looked around. Behind him were more cars, all pushed slightly out of alignment, probably from the blast of the nuclear reactors in the cars up the way exploding. His stomach lurched - from radiation, or head trauma? Probably didn't matter.

Dazed, he looked around again for his shotgun and found it, about fifteen feet away and half-under a car. He bent over, half-crawling towards the wooden stock, and pulled it free. He thought about keeping it out, then laughed at himself; no way he was going to be able to fight anything, the way he felt. His mind drifted to the Med-X in his bag, and he pulled it out, rolling up his sleeve as he went.

John hated anything that involved shooting up, and for a moment he wondered if the nausea would get worse. His head was pounding, though, and maybe, just maybe it would help. He was searching for a vein when he remembered why he'd been here in the first place.

 _Myrtle._

He turned his head, vision swimming with the sudden motion, and looked up the ramp at the cage. It was flanked between the two smoking cars, and suddenly he became aware of the smell of cooked meat, and a metallic taste under his tongue. He stood, barely noticing the ache in his limbs as they protested the sudden motion, and began making his way up the ramp, shoving the Med-X back in his bag as he went. The shotgun hung from his left hand, empty and useless.

The roaring silence in his ears was deafening as he stepped over the body of the dead super mutant and got closer, closer, closer to the cage and the burning cars. Greasy black smoke billowed around him, and the scent of meat cooking turned his stomach.

Inside the cage, nothing was left of Myrtle or her cat. Instead, in a fifteen foot circle around the two cars, there was a slick and fatty substance, charred in places, that he realized had to be fat. Body fat, body waste.

His stomach lurched again, and this time he couldn't stop the sour yellow bile that rose up in his throat, flipping upwards and out of his mouth, onto his boots, the ground, the grease around him.

* * *

The next few days were a haze. Somehow he stumbled back to Goodneighbor, back to the Memory Den. Irma took one look at him and called Dr. Amari, who frowned and clucked her tongue and laid him out with a drip of Rad-Away in the crook of his elbow. The metallic taste faded, and his hearing seemed to return, although later he couldn't have said when the two happened.

Amari dosed him with Med-X and when she wasn't looking, he supplemented with some of his own supply. She simply couldn't - or maybe wouldn't - get enough of the drug in him to erase the pain in his creaking joints, to wipe out the image of Myrtle screaming and clutching her cat.

John stared at the exposed brick walls of the Den, floating inside his body, and thought about all the ways he'd failed.

* * *

"You need to go outside." Amari's voice was disapproving, as always. She'd never had the soft spot for him that Irma did. Sometimes John wondered why that was - maybe she didn't like men; if so, that was okay with him, though she didn't have to be so harsh about it.

"Tired of my handsome mug already, sweetheart?" He couldn't help but tease her, despite her stern expression.

"It's the smoke. I'm a doctor, John - don't call me that," Amari waved her hand dismissively, although if it was at him or the smoke, he couldn't tell. He put the cigarette between his lips, took another petulant puff, and got up off Irma's couch. He looked wistfully one more time at the soft red velvet, then shouldered his pack. His joints still hurt, although he had a feeling now it was from the Med-X, not the accident. The high was excellent, but it really wasn't meant for long-term use, and he knew that.

"Guess I will," he said to her retreating back, or to himself. He pulled the pack up over his shoulder clumsily, one hand still holding his cigarette, and made his way to the door. From Kent's room came the sound of the Silver Shroud holotapes John had brought - "Oh wow, John, these are the bee's knees!" Kent had said when he presented them - and his considered for a moment stopping in there before deciding to head down to the Third Rail.

He could use a drink.

* * *

The bar was the same as the last time he'd visited; warmer than outside and loud, full of people and smoke and music from the radio blaring so loudly that the sound was distorted. He bellied up to the bar, waving at Charlie and getting a filmy drinking glass with finger prints on the side into which the Mr. Handy poured a couple fingers of whiskey.

"That it?" John asked, cocking one brow. If robots could smirk, Charlie would.

"I'll need to s'more caps, then," he said, pouring several more fingers in as John laid a few more caps on the bar, trying not to wince as he saw how few he had left. He'd have to find work, and soon; he hadn't realized how low he was getting on funds, living at the Den and hiding from the world. He still had the books for Daisy - maybe she'd give him a little something for bringing them to her. He'd have to remember to stop by on his way out of town.

With a whiff of fuel, sweet and a little tangy, Whitechapel Charlie flew off to the other end of the bar to fill someone else's order. John took a long, grateful sip of his drink, wincing a little at the spicy sourness of the liquor.

Behind him was a peal of laughter. He turned his head slightly, looking back at the crowd at the small table behind him. Vic and Finn and Ogre sat behind him, along with a couple other bruisers he didn't recognize, and the unfortunate blonde girl John had seen them with a few times before. Ogre took up almost a whole third of the table with his great girth, and John wondered - not for the first time - if maybe he'd had a hit of the old FEV. Big guy.

He slid a cigarette from his pack, lit it without entirely turning his head to look at them, and took a long drag, glancing at the table full of hulking bullies and wondering if he felt like picking a fight. The blonde girl looked like the kind of dame who needed someone to help her. The shame he'd seen on her face before was faded, replaced by a sort of world-weariness.

John turned back to the bar, took another hit of his cigarette, and raised his glass to his lips, wondering if he was really going to do what he thought he was about it. He sipped slowly, thinking and swallowing, and before he knew it, the liquor was gone. He set it back down on the bar harder than he meant to, but no one around him seemed to notice the noise. Behind him, Vic had his hands all over the girl again, and she seemed to have given up; her eyes were unfocused and pointed at the ceiling as Vic pinched and prodded her.

"Get us another round, eh, bitch?" There was the distinctive sound of Vic smacking the girl, hard, the slap on her ass just one more indignity, and with that, John stood, kicking his stool away.

The world swam around him for a moment; he stood still, trying to get his bearings, and then turned, puffing at his cigarette and dragging his bag with him.

"How much for -" The group at Vic's table was looking at him, but he realized the slur of his words around the cigarette was too much. He took it out, clasping it between two fingers, and tries again. "How much for an hour with her?"

The men at the table began to laugh, an ugly, rolling sound, and John tried to focus on just one of them.

"I don't think you have those kinds of caps," Ogre said in his slow rumble. John became aware that the whole bar had gone quiet behind him. He stood, still and resolute, trying to keep a lecherous smile on his face. None of this would work if they knew what he was up to. He flicked his eyes at her and thought about what it would feel like to have her rub up against him, and then he found he didn't need to fake it.

To have a girl like that, naked and - No. He needed to focus. This wasn't about his own base needs, his own desires or pleasure, even if it looked like that.

He looked back at Vic, repeated his question. "How much?"

Vic frowned at him, turned back to the girl, and gave her an appraising look. She looked down, at the floor, and John fancied he saw an expression of hope flit across her face.

Probably just his imagination.

"Fifty caps."

John only had about sixty, but he knew this game. Best to seem interested but not too set on it. He puffed at his cigarette, then turned on his heel as if this was way more than he'd consider. "Nevermind," he grunted. "Too much for a skinny thing like her."

A laugh around the table, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Vic unbuttoning the top of the girl's blouse, exposing one beautiful tit for him to look at. Her nipple was soft in the warm air of the bar, a dark rose color. He thought for a moment about what it might taste like.

"Too skinny?" Vic laughed. "Look at this shit."

John looked. He looked and he hated himself for it.

"Fine," he grumbled, doing his best to make a show of it. He handed fifty caps over to Finn, who took them with a knowing smile.

"Go with him," Vic smacked the girl on the ass again, and she tottered over to John. He wondered for a moment what she was on, to keep her so placid. "Be back in an hour."

John took her elbow in his hand and guided her to the stairs. She wobbled a little going up them, and he was worried when he saw how glazed her eyes were.

How would she fare in the ruins, with a look in her eyes like that?

Outside the Third Rail, the air was cold; with two blasts of the wintry breeze he suddenly felt more centered, more focused.

"Can you use a gun?" Her eyes went wide. "This's a jailbreak, sweetheart."

"No, I can't -" She turned, raising her elbow as she moved away from him, and he felt suddenly how skinny she really was - he'd said that to get Vic's goat, but he could feel her ribs brush against his knuckles. She shivered in the next gust of wind, and before he knew it, he was pulling his coat off and wrapping it around her, the faded and dirty leather swallowing her.

"Do you want out of this place?" Her eyes were huge in her small face, glittering pink in the neon from the Memory Den's sign. She nodded.

"Then we gotta go. _Now._ " He started for the gate and, a moment later, heard the sound of her feet as she followed him.


	3. Never in One Place

Way Back Home: Never In One Place

* * *

The stool at the bar in Bunker Hill was unsteady, borderline wobbly. The wood of the seat was rough, unfinished, and it felt like John's ass was going to get a splinter. But with the long, totally fucked up day he'd had, he figured he deserved to drink his last few caps away.

When he and the girl - a small, shivery thing named Nicole - had slipped out the gate of Goodneighbor, he'd have bet they'd never make it all the way to Bunker Hill in one piece. He'd thought she'd get caught out by ferals or mutants and that one or both of them would be killed when he went after her. Would've bet every last cap he'd ever made this was the stupidest damn impulse he'd ever followed.

He'd have lost that bet. Surprisingly enough, she'd gone where he told her, when he'd told her. She'd listened, _obeyed_ even, and in the end it hadn't been too bad. They'd hugged one building around a super mutant nest, and when he'd asked her to hang back as they crossed the bridge, she had, enabling him to make sure the figures lurking on it weren't raiders.

She was upstairs now - he'd rented her a room to sleep in, after trading a hit of Jet to the boy in charge of the inn's stalls - and in the morning he'd make sure she was fed before he turned her loose. He'd lost money on this whole deal, but - well, he felt a little better about himself. He couldn't save everyone but at least he wouldn't be leaving some young thing to a life of forced prostitution.

He didn't know what he would do next. He stared into the translucent amber liquid in the chipped glass Savoldi had given him, and wondered where he would go now; if he went back to Goodneighbor, Vic would skin him alive for letting the girl go. Even if he lied, even if he said she'd escaped, it was so long since he'd rented her now -

John took a sip of his whiskey and frowned at the chipped and broken wood of the bar. Going back to Goodneighbor wasn't an option. Maybe Diamond City?

He thought of his brother's face, the way Martin's hateful smile spread so slowly, thought of the way his teeth seemed to fill his face. No. That was definitely out of the question; Martin might very well turn him in to anyone who came looking for him, no matter how sleazy.

The whiskey in his glass was greasy and hot and a little fiery. He finished it quickly, trying not to gag on the cheap stuff, and stood, unsteady on his tired feet. He gave the barkeep a nod and headed upstairs, the voices around him a whirl of place names and bad jokes and laughter. Tomorrow, they'd have to disappear. Tomorrow he'd have to figure out what to do with her. She had good survival instincts, he'd grant her that, but she didn't have a weapon or any real know-how on protecting herself.

Without him - or someone like him - she'd be dead in a week.

* * *

Nicole was still awake when he stumbled into their room. Two mattresses lay on the floor with a couple feet of bare boards separating them. There was no door, nothing to offer any privacy; a gust of cold wind blew in through the doorway and across the empty mattress. John looked at it sourly, trying to feel virtuous about taking the colder bed and instead wondering why she hadn't left the warmer one for him.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized she was awake and watching him from her bed. He felt a flash of annoyance at her, tamping it down as best he could, but it was still there, still hostile at the fact that he had chosen to take her out of Goodneighbor away from his warm and safe bed at the Memory Den. It was unfair, and he knew it, but that was how he felt.

John never pretended to be some white knight.

He stood on one foot, then the other, toeing his boots off one at a time and looking anywhere but at her wide, staring eyes, trying to be strong and not shiver in the breeze that blew up under his coat, but it was early February in the Commonwealth and he was just a man. Nicole stood, pushing the scratchy blanket Savoldi had supplied off of herself as she did so, and her footsteps across the creaking boards were light, quiet. She stood close to him, though he looked away, and he felt her unbuckle his belt and begin to work his pants down. Her hands were hot against his chilled skin. Another gust of wind blew through, and he shivered again, and turned back to look at her wide, blue eyes.

"You don't have to-"

"Even if I want to?" Her eyes were guileless but sad. He felt her soft hands on his hips and wondered how many men she'd done this with, and how many men she'd wanted to. How many men had forced themselves on her in her short life.

"Don't." He moved his own hands onto hers, gently pushing her away. She looked down at the floor and for a moment he felt bad, although he wasn't sure why. She was beautiful, sure, but he didn't like feeling like he was an obligation. He was old enough to know by now that none of it was any fun if the other person didn't want to, unless you were a brute like Vic or Ogre.

John thought about saying something more, but she'd turned now, gone back to her bed and under the blanket, and was no more than a dimly-realized brown lump under the threadbare wool. He sank onto his own mattress, trying to ignore the smell of unwashed bodies and mildew that rose up around him as he did so. He pulled his own blanket over himself and let sleep take him.

* * *

Morning was offensively bright. He sat up slowly, looking around the room. Nicole was gone; his pack still sat by the door. He reached in and took the box of Mentats out, wincing at the loud creak as he opened the rusted lid. He popped two in his mouth, thought for a moment, then added two more. Today he'd have to figure out where he was going, and what to do with the girl, and he'd need all the help he could get with that.

John didn't think of himself as particularly smart, but what he lacked in intelligence he made up for with resourcefulness. He'd figure a way out of this one yet.

Below, he could hear people starting their day. Savoldi had some meat grilling and the smell made John's stomach growl, though he didn't think he had enough caps to afford something like that, and today he'd need to get serious about making some dough. Things were about to get real lean if he didn't.

He shouldered his pack and went over to the brahmin pen to take a leak. After, he worked his way to the small market around the monument and was able to bargain with one of the traders there for a few extra caps on some loose junk he'd been hauling around. It wasn't as much as he'd get in Goodneighbor, where everyone knew better than to fuck around with him, but he had to get out and it'd be better not to make a fuss.

Better to get away clean and fast.

Back at Savoldi's, he found Nicole perched on a stool and looking longing at a skewer of squirrel. With a little creative bargaining he was able to get the pop to give them a good deal on a few skewers and soon he and the girl were feasting on charred meat. It was greasy and unsatisfying, but it was hot and at this point he'd take anything to eat if it'd warm up his hands.

"You know if anyone's looking for extra help on a caravan?" Savoldi looked up when he spoke, glanced around the bar. "Me and, uh, my niece here, we gotta find some work. I'm real handy with a gun," he added. He didn't want to ask, didn't want to stand out, but bartenders always knew these things, and he was starting to think that fucking off out of the Commonwealth entirely was their best bet. The fewer people could point Vic's boys at them later, the happier he'd be.

Both Savoldi and Nicole looked at him with eyebrows raised. Savoldi looked from John to Nicole, then back to John, then gave his head a little shake.

"I don't know about your _niece,_ but Blackbird over there might be hiring. Sounds like she had to fire one of her guards the other night for falling asleep during watch," he gestured past John to the brahmin pen, where a statuesque dark-skinned woman was checking the ropes on her cattle.

"Thanks," John said, giving the bartender a salute and pretending not to notice the look the older man gave him. He waved to Nicole and the girl rose obediently to follow him over to the brahmin pen, still munching on her blackened squirrel bits, the charred stick held tightly in her fingers. He wondered when she last ate a good meal.

"Hey there," he greeted the woman Savoldi had called Blackbird. She turned, giving him an appraising look. She was taller than John, nearly six feet he'd guess, with a lean, muscled body and a pile of long dark red braids wrapped nearly around her head.

"I don't have time to talk, whoever you are," her voice had an accent he couldn't place. Someplace Southern, maybe? It sounded like swamps and hot, spicy meats.

"I heard you might be looking for help," he tried again, sticking his hands in his pockets and trying to look capable, trying not to look like a man who'd never accomplished much and whose bag was mostly full of chems under the knives and shotgun shells.

She gave him that look again, her dark eyes flitting over him briefly, dismissively, before going back to Nicole. She turned away again, tightening a strap with a grunt.

"I don't need help from criminals."

"Now just wait a second -"

Blackbird turned back to him, hands on her hips, an amused smile on her face. "You think I don't know someone who needs to get out of town fast when I see him? This isn't my first time running a caravan. Go back to whoever you stole from, give whatever it is back, ask for their forgiveness. I can't help you."

"Please, ma'am - I can't go back." It was Nicole who spoke this time. Her voice was small, like a birdsong at night. She took a tentative step forward. Blackbird's eyes fixed on her and for a moment John wanted nothing more than to shush her - what if someone was listening?

"Go on."

"This man," Nicole looked at him quickly, then back at Blackbird. "He saved me from a man who was whoring me out. Please, if we go back, we'll probably both be killed."

A sigh from the caravaneer. "This is not my problem." She turned away again, one flap on the brahmin's saddle bag open, to dig around for something, or maybe to ignore them until they went away.

"I can work for it. Hire me and let the girl come along, just until I can find a safe place for her, and I'll work as a guard. You don't even have to pay me the going rate." He hated the fact that his voice sounded so pleading.

Blackbird turned around again, gave him another long stare. Looked past him to Nicole and studied her before turning back to John. He tried to look competent, tried not to look like the kind of person who popped four Mentats first thing in the morning just because he wanted to feel smarter.

Finally, she gave a single small nod. "Fine. Three hundred caps when we get where we're going and you find a home for the girl as soon as possible. If we lose cargo to raiders, I pay you nothing."

"Room and board included?"

She looked at the girl again, then back at John, her lips a hard, thin line. "Fine."

He put his hand out, a smile working its way across his face. She looked at it as if it had crawled out from a radroach nest, then gingerly placed her own it it, allowing him to shake her hand.

"That's nice to hear. You can call me John."

"You're holding me up. Get your shit together, we need to be out of here last week."

At that he hopped to, going to her other brahmin and gripping its lead, coaxing it slowly out of the gate with little kissing noises and clicks of his tongue. The beast rumbled forward; a moment later, Blackbird began introducing him to the others in their group. There was a half-hour of hitching the brahmin to the carts and loading up, and then they were gone, heading up the road from Bunker Hill and west.

* * *

They stopped for the night just north of Boxborough, off the road and nestled into a corner between some houses. Blackbird, for all he'd chosen her outfit out of desperation, ran a tight ship. There were four other guards and a total of three brahmin, one of which wore a standard pack, with the other two pulling small wagons. She drove one wagon herself, with the guards rotating out the second one. He and Nicole perched on the back of the second wagon, with the last brahmin tied to the back of the wagon, bringing up the rear.

Tomorrow they'd be out of the Boston area, heading further West, and he'd feel safer. He figured that every day they were on the road, he'd feel better about the whole situation. Even Nicole had seemed a little lighter, a little freer, when they passed the road up to Sanctuary Hills.

One of the guards, a big guy named Jack who spoke little and with the same thick accent as Blackbird, the one John couldn't place, sat watch while the rest of them ate cold Cram out of the can and passed around an almost-moldy loaf of razorgrain bread. Nicole picked at her food - slave or not, she was clearly used to something a step up from this - but John found the long day of travel had made him ravenous. He scarfed down whatever was handed to him, then split Nicole's leftovers with Jack.

The others went to bed, but he was too keyed up to sleep, too anxious not knowing what was ahead. Instead he paced, then grabbed his cigarettes and flask, shoving them into his pockets, and walked over to Jack, at the edge of the firelight. The big guard's assault rifle was practically a toy in his massive dark hands.

He offered his pack to the big man, who took a cigarette gingerly with a glance back at Blackbird's sleeping form.

"She'll kill me if she sees me smoking," his voice was a rumble in the dark.

"Not a fan, eh?" John lit Jack's cigarette with a flash of his golden lighter, then his own. Just because he was living on the road now was no reason to skimp on style.

"No, she...disapproves," Jack said, a laugh in his voice. "She disapproves of a lot of things." John offered the flask next, and Jack accepted, taking a long, slow drink that finished with a smile.

"Where're you folks from, anyway? I can't place the accent." John took a drag of his own cigarette, watched the smoke drift out of the firelight and up to the sky, away into the black. Beyond that, he could see clear, cold winter stars winking down.

"Down in Dixieland, out in the swamp. We got gators down there the size of busses." John didn't know what a gator was - not something they had around here, anyway - but anything the size of a bus didn't sound good. He tried to picture it, and came up with a lizard, something like a deathclaw, green and prehistoric and waiting in the swamps. A shiver went down his spine.

"Why'd you leave?"

Jack looked down at him, a mountain of man with a scar the size of John's forearm on his face. The scar ran from the top of his head, pink and puckered in his dark skin, and curved around his ear then disappeared into his shirt collar. There was a story behind that, and he wanted to ask, but something told him it wasn't the right time, despite the faint smile that lingered on Jack's lips.

"It wasn't the right place for me and sis."

No arguing with that.

"So - I know I probably should've asked this before I jumped on this crazy train - but where're we headed, anyhow?"

Jack's laugh was so low, so deep, it sounded like an earthquake. "Bird was right. You really did need to get out of town."

John chuckled. "Never said we didn't."

"We're going to New Vegas. Gonna be a long trip." Jack turned away from him to look back out into the grass, down the hill, the lights of Concord too far to be seen from this distance. To the south, the Glowing Sea was radiant, green and deadly.

Vegas, huh? John thought about that for a moment. What did he knew about out there? Everything he'd ever heard was all casinos, chems, and women.

Sounded like his kind of place.


	4. You Saw Me Standing Alone

Way Back Home: You Saw Me Standing Alone

Notes: I want to give a special shoutout to Mercenary_bunnies for all the help you've given me in formulating this. For giving me the idea and impetus to write this to reading bits and pieces before I do anything concrete with them to being an amazing sounding board and conceptualizer, I think I owe you a giant thank you. I'm really enjoying writing this and it's been a new and wonderful experience to have a collaborator to call me out when I'm going to make a stupid narrative decision and cheer me on when things are going right. THANK YOU.

* * *

Shit. Shit, shit, shit! _Mierda._

Honey stomped an anxious tattoo on the pavement; her left boot was starting to fall apart, the sole flapping at her toes and creating a third beat with every other step. She frowned down at it, but there was no time to stop, not now, not now that she'd completely fucked everything up. The gate swam up ahead of her, the parts of the metal that weren't rusted winking in the sunlight. She reached one tanned hand up to her temple, under the side of her sunglasses, and rubbed the pink scar tissue there gently; it did nothing to alleviate the headache she felt building there, the one she'd been fighting with Med-X and homebrew tequila as far back as she could remember.

So, you know, about six weeks or so. Before that everything was loud and harsh and blurry, a string of nonsense she couldn't parse.

The man in the black suit, the one from Nipton, passed through the gate ahead of her. In her pocket, the pendant he'd given her was heavy and cool, the chill of it seeping through the thin fabric and creating a cold spot on her thigh. She eyed the Securitron at the gate nervously and pulled her cowboy hat lower over her face, over her scars. She wondered if it was going to hold her up, then felt stupid when it let her through, as she should have known it would. Mr. House might know Benny got away, but he wouldn't have any way of knowing she didn't get the chip.

Even he wasn't that powerful...was he?

Freeside felt safer, somehow, despite her brain working overtime to soothe her; with the Lucky 38 behind her, she slowed her pace a little and tried to consider her options.

 _Fuck._ She knew better than to trust that chingón Benny, and not just because he shot her in the head and left her buried in the pinche desert. There was something else going on there, something deeper, something more -

If she could only _remember._

Honey passed the Old Mormon Fort and thought for a moment about stopping in to say goodbye to Julie and Arcade, to buy some supplies, and then reconsidered. If they saw her, they'd ask where she was going. Julie might want something in particular, and then if anyone came asking about her, they'd know right where to point them. On the other hand, maybe Julie _would_ send her somewhere and she could go the opposite way, so anyone who came after her would be send on a wild goose chase?

Before she could decide, her feet carried her past and the fort was gone, the ruling made through her own uncertainty. Making decisions was so hard these days, so taxing and confusing with her head a swirling mess of fragmented memories and distant pictures that couldn't possibly be from her life. The other woman, the one she'd been before - reliving her life was like a nightmare. Honey found herself wondering often if there was any way how the two of them were connected besides their shared body; she wondered if she had always been inside, screaming to get out.

It was all dim but for the flashes of things she wished would stay forgotten. She'd gotten one when Benny ran his hand up her thigh, the shiver unspooling a recollection of his fingers on her under the card table, of his hot breath on her ear as he whispered something nasty to her. The sound of Jeannie May Crawford's blood spattering her cheek when the bullet passed through her brain brought back the sound of screaming and the metallic scent of slaughter, like old world pennies under her tongue. Mercedes - the woman she'd been before she woke up in Doc Mitchell's little clinic - was alien to her, and terrifying.

Passing through Freeside's gate and into outer Vegas, Honey shook her head, as if the motion would clear her thoughts, would somehow help the memories - well, she wasn't sure what she wanted from them. If they clarified then she'd have to deal with them, with the reality of who she used to be. And if they didn't...maybe she wouldn't. At least, until she ran into someone else who'd known her before, someone she'd hurt.

Honey realized with a start that she'd left without Cass. She stopped, a trickle of sweat making its way between her shoulder blades, and thought for a moment about going back to the Lucky 38 to get her. She didn't know where she was going but then again there was a bar full of whiskey. Maybe Cass would still be there when she returned.

If she returned. If the desert didn't chew her up and spit her out, if the Legion didn't get tired of waiting for her and come after her, if there wasn't the rumble of securitrons to escort her back to the Lucky 38 to explain herself -

She couldn't even finish the thought without breaking out into a chill. The thought of Mr. House finding out she hadn't gotten the chip was enough to cover her arms in goosebumps and send her feet scurrying north. _Away, away, away,_ her brain chattered as her feet slapped the pavement, the city receding behind her. _Run away._

* * *

Sometimes Nicole reminded John of a newborn baby. The girl didn't seem to know so many basic things, it was a miracle - or maybe a tragedy - that she'd survived as long as she had. They hadn't been on the road three days when the caravan was hit by a pack of sorely over-confident raiders. Half of them had run off before Jack even had a chance to properly stop his cart, and the ones that the rest of them dropped were so skinny that John thought they'd likely have starved before the end of winter anyway.

It was cold on the road; as they passed through the mountains and the ruins of picturesque small towns advertising maple syrup and harvest festivals, John felt eyes on the back of his neck, though they rarely saw people. Maybe he was just losing it.

In the evenings he tried to teach Nicole to shoot using a pitiful excuse for a pipe pistol that he'd taken from the corpse of one of the raiders outside Albany. She had good form but was slow to aim; he kept reminding himself that she was still new, still learning, but inside he felt impatient. All she seemed to want to do, now that she'd lost interest in trying to repay him in some unwanted way, was moon after one of the other guards. The other guard was everything John wasn't - big, burly, with shoulders like he'd only ever seen one time before, on an old pre-war plate from Greece that he'd seen in a museum. This guy was known only as Bruiser, which John found amusing and alarming in turns. If he hadn't started to feel so damn fatherly and responsible for the girl, he would've taken her interest in a guy so different from him hurtful; instead he found himself wondering aimlessly if Bruiser was good enough for her.

They were near signs for Buffalo when the snow started falling. It wasn't as if John had never seen snow before - there had been a few inches that fell in Boston some ten years ago or so - but still. Still, it was thrilling; inside he felt a reckless giddiness rising up from his gut.

From the way the others reacted, this wasn't unusual; apparently they made this trip every couple years or so and snow around the Great Lakes, as Blackbird called them, was normal, even expected.

"It's the Glowing Sea," she'd said to John when he asked her about it. "Boston is so close to it, and after the nuclear winter ended, there was too much carbon dioxide in the air, and now the climate is too warm. It should start normalizing over the next few decades, though. Maybe our grandchildren will have summers and winters like they did before the bombs."

He'd looked at her, wondering if the hit of Jet he'd taken before she'd come around the wagon was laced with something unexpected, and all he could croak out was a strangled-sounding, "What?"

Blackbird had looked him over carefully, toes to the top of his head, and then given a small, resigned nod as if she understood something. Rolling her eyes and turning away from him, she just said, "Read a fucking book, John."

They hunkered down for four days, taking shelter from the snow in an old library that Blackbird and Jack had stayed in before. John did read some books while they were there, when it wasn't his watch, and he wasn't sleeping or working with Nicole. He walked back to the history section with a pillow and a can of water and pulled some items from his pockets. Med-X was difficult to administer, but it had the benefit of making him sink into a puddle on the floor where he could read slowly, letting the facts wash over him.

Back in the stacks, he made himself a nest with the pillow and a blanket, then wrapped a rubber strap around his bicep. His practiced fingers flicked at his elbow, searching through a constellation of scars and track marks for a good vein. He finally found one that wasn't too bad on the bone of his wrist, so he moved the tourniquet down and prepped his syringe with one hand while making fists with the prone hand.

One careful shot later and he could feel his veins going cold, icy fingers tracing their way through his arteries, tangling and weaving into his heart, into his brain. For a moment, he wondered if maybe he'd taken too much, but then he was drowning in blackness, his fingers releasing the rubber tourniquet as he drifted down.

* * *

 _Zion._ The name of the canyon sounded familiar, but like everything else, Honey had no idea why. The call had come through on her Pip-Boy and before she could debate the virtues or the risks of joining the Happy Trails Caravan, her feet were marching her north, towards the signal.

 _Run away, run away, run away._

All she could think about was putting as much distance between herself and the securitrons and the Legion's mongrels as possible. When she closed her eyes, destruction danced behind her lids: blood spattered on rusted blue metal, the whir of a machine gun, the solid thunk of a nail hammering into bone and flesh and wood.

For most of the journey to Zion, she brought up the rear, Lucky in one hand, combat knife in the other. Before they'd left, she'd taken a hit of Med-X; the headache had finally receded, though she could still feel its grubby little fingers probing for weakness in the scar that traveled from her right temple. When they stopped for the night near the Valley of Fire, she found her appetite was scarce, even when Stella brought her a slab of fried gecko. The smell of roasted meat turned her stomach, and she thanked the other woman with a queasy smile on her face.

After the sun fell, she wandered up a small hill, looking down on the crimson stones, their color muted under the half-full moon. Behind her, the campfire flickered on the other caravaners huddled in their blankets. She was supposed to be keeping watch, but on a clear night like this, she could see anything coming from miles. Of all the things she'd lost when Benny the cabrón had shot her, she was lucky her vision hadn't been one of them. She sat gingerly on a large pink rock, admiring the orange swirls, and tried to think.

 _Run away, run away._

Jed made Zion sound like paradise. Apparently they'd continue north after that, head up to New Canaan, to try trading with the Mormons. Utah - something about it tugged at her memory but every time she tried to track it down, it slipped away.

With a sigh, she pulled the small steel flask from her belt and took a long drink. The tequila burned; homebrew was always harsher than she would have liked, but she didn't stay still long enough to age it the way she should. Her mamá had always said good tequila should taste like honey and the sun.

Her mamá? The thought stopped her and she tried to focus, and she could hear the sound of a woman laughing kindly, the scent of mesquite in her hair. She tried to imagine her mother's face, to bring forth eyes, or a smile, but all she could find was the glint of gold around her neck, a crucifix glimmering in the sun. Then it was gone, the memory of the memory fading like a dream upon waking.

The crucifix. Honey reached a hand into her shirt and pulled out the gold chain that rested between her breasts. The crucifix hung there, shimmering in the starlight and warm from her skin. She studied it, at the beatific smile of the man affixed to the cross. Something about it was important; her mamá had saved it for so long because she loved it, she loved him. Honey ran her fingers over the warm gold, scratching lightly at one of the man's tiny hands to remove a flake of rust-red blood.

The blood made her think of the other talisman she carried, and she dropped the necklace back inside her clothes where it could rest near her heart, and this time she drew the pendant Vulpes had given her from her hip pocket. The leather necklace caught in her fingers, and she inspected the large, flat coin-like item carefully, studying the cool silvery disc. Vulpes had said it would give her safe passage - or as safe as she could be in the Mojave - to Fortification Hill, to see Caesar. He'd said Caesar wanted to see her, though he'd been vague about why.

She took another sip of tequila and shivered in the dark. The desert was cooling rapidly; soon she would need to get her own blanket and go to bed, where she would undoubtedly toss and turn with nightmares of places and people she couldn't remember.

* * *

Each city they passed made John more curious. Jack's geiger counter seemed to chip less as they traveled farther from the coast. The caravan stayed on major highways, bypassing the signs to Cleveland, Toledo, Detroit. They camped at night in old fuel stations, or in roadside motels. Each morning when he woke it was a little warmer; spring was finally coming. The mountains were far behind them now, though there was a sickening green glow in the distance, beyond the massive lake. Blackbird said it was the ruins of Detroit, a manufacturing city before the war and now nothing more than ghouls and radiation that extended halfway across the lake.

It made him shiver to think of it.

I-90 was an easy road, broad and flat with few impediments. Even when there were cars in the road, most of them stopped at strange angles and between lanes, there were few enough of them to easily maneuver the brahmin and their wagons around. They were somewhere near the Indiana state line when there was the sound of growling in the distance and the brahmin's ears all went up. The last beast, the one tethered to the back of the second wagon, stopped still in the road, then began trying to turn its head, bucking at the line, stomping its hooves and groaning in a way John had never heard before.

He turned towards the sounds of growling, his heart rising into his throat.

A deathclaw. Massive, green and brown and leathery, stomping one massive foot into the road so hard that the car to their left jumped a little on what remained of its tires. Then, from behind a car, another one. A third, slipping down the slope to their right. He stopped counting at the fifth, but more were still appearing, and he felt Nicole shake against his arm. His hands were steady, though, and when Jack bellowed at him to get the grenades from the battered yellow box behind him, he didn't hesitate.

The pin slid out easily, and he threw the first one in a high, perfect arc over his head, keeping his eyes on it as it bounced across the ground, landing under an old seafoam green Corvega towards the middle of the pack. He put one hand on Nicole's shoulder, pushing her down, and for a moment he heard Myrtle's voice in his ears again, her wails of fear and anguish as the suicider advanced on him. There was a flash, and a scream, and he dropped his head before the car blew, deafening them all.

* * *

The canyon was long and narrow with impossibly sheer walls. After a surprisingly wet winter, the floor of the valley was green with small plants working their way up through the gritty soil. Honey looked over it, her eyes aching behind her sunglasses from the brightness of the sun above. The sky was blue, bluer than she'd thought it could be, and for a fleeting moment she thought maybe - maybe - this was home. Maybe she could just stay here, could leave the caravan and find an old building for a home and just -

Fuck it. Let Vegas sort itself out; let all the assholes down there burn the place to the ground. She'd found paradise here, in the sound of the breeze blowing through the small, hunched trees. The headache pulsed behind her eyes, and she tried not to think of the memory that had come back just this morning, of the smell of the cemetery around her and the rage she'd felt looking up at Benny in that stupid fucking jacket. The apology lurking in his dark eyes, the way her hair had felt, sticky with blood on one side where the first shot had gone wide, barely grazing her.

Then there'd been the thunderclap of the second shot, the way his eyes had widened as he saw the pain on her face, and the feeling of hands on her back and her ass, shoving her roughly into the hole they'd dug for her. She hadn't heard the dirt piled atop her but had felt it; she'd tried screaming but all she could get out were muffled choking sobs through the gag - and then blackness.

Jed looked at her and she realized she was smiling, looking at the unspoiled perfection before her. The oranges and greens of the canyon were luminous, almost too bright, and she took a deep breath, trying to ignore the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

"You okay there?"

She nodded, the smile so broad it was almost painful. "Sí - I mean, yes. It's just -" But the words wouldn't come in either language. Jed just nodded and pointed towards the rickety bridge on their right, his expression making it clear that he knew how she felt. Honey turned to follow him when the first shot rang out, loud and unexpected, and behind her, Ricky dropped suddenly, bonelessly, into a pile of dying flesh.

Jed drew his weapon and Stella was already firing at the strangely-dressed men before them. Honey pulled the trail carbine from her back, took careful aim at the pale leg of the one on the left. She pulled the trigger, despite the distracting strangled scream from her right as Stella collapsed over the edge of the canyon, clutching her stomach.

The tribal went down much the way Stella had, grabbing at the remains of his left leg and dropping into the abyss below. Honey aimed again, breathed in, and her bullet caught the other tribal in the face, just under one eye. He fell backwards, throat gurgling, and she stepped forward slowly, her feet tentative on the rickety wooden bridge. When she'd crossed, the man had stopped making noise, but his good eye tracked her.

Honey stood over him, head tilted. She pulled off her sunglasses and hooked them on the front of her leather armor and met his eye; the other one was gone, replaced by a gaping hole that wept blood, and inside she fancied she could see the pale yellow of bone. His remaining eye was dark brown, as deep and unreadable as Benny's had been. Her skull ached as if her brain was pulsing inside it.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The man below her made a groaning kind of assent, deep in his throat, and it occurred to her that if she didn't do anything he'd probably choke to death on his own blood. She turned and looked back at the bodies across the bridge, at the red blood growing under Jed's kind face. Alone again; somehow she always ended up alone. Squinting in the sunlight and trying not to wince at the pain of turning her head, she looked back down at the tribal man and cocked her gun.

"Let me help you with that."

And she fired.


	5. Suddenly Appeared Before Me

Way Back Home: Suddenly Appeared Before Me

Notes: Another thank you to Mercenary_bunnies for your continued support/feedback while I write this. You and I might be the only people into it, but at least we're having fun!

* * *

The flat plains of Nebraska stretched out on both sides of the road farther than John realized the world could go, off to the horizon. He sat alone on the back of the second wagon; Bruiser sat up front, driving the brahmin, and with the world so quiet around them, John could hear Nicole's quiet giggle at something the big man had said. Jack and Blackbird occupied the front wagon. The other two guards had been killed several states back - the tall, strong kid had been killed by raiders near Chicago, and the twitchy guy with the tattoo on his forehead had been caught stealing and shot by Blackbird just before Des Moines.

Weird name for a city, that, he thought as he took a quiet puff of Jet. The drug kicked in immediately, the earthy aroma drifting into his nose through his mouth, and John tried not to cough, tried not to give himself away. It would be better if no one knew about his chem use; he could always tell who would disapprove and he had no doubt Blackbird would. Though his brain was already floating in his skull, he took another meditative puff before stashing the inhaler in his jacket pocket. His cigarettes and lighter were in there, and he considered leaving them, then decided there wasn't any reason not to smoke.

The Jet made everything slow and dreamy as he pulled a cigarette slowly out of the pack. It danced between his fingers as he lit it, the flame of his lighter dim in the daylight. He puffed slowly, savoring the way the smoke filled his chest, his throat, his mind and left room for nothing else.

His thoughts drifted back to the Commonwealth. The virtue of being on the road was that he hadn't thought of his home in weeks; putting it behind him literally had made him stop thinking about it. The fields around him were green and gold and waving in a soft breeze, and John could smell something he didn't think he'd ever smelled before. He didn't know what it was, but he knew nothing smelled like this back home - it smelled _green,_ like plants, fresh and clean. He closed his eyes and let his hand drift so the smoke would blow away and took a long drag of the fresh air.

Maybe he'd never go back. Maybe he would just stay out west. Maybe he'd stay right here.

* * *

"I wanted to thank you." Honey sat on the low ledge, her bare feet dangling in the stream. The water was warm, inviting. She let out a heavy sigh; she didn't want to have this conversation, not now. If they had to, let them have it later, or never.

Joshua settled next to her on the ledge, careful to keep several inches between them, though she could feel the heat of his body through his bandages. He moved stiffly, keeping his feet above the water line so his shoes wouldn't get wet. She didn't turn her head - she knew he didn't like people looking at him - and found herself somehow grateful that he'd settled on her left side. Over there he wouldn't see the scars; on her left side she looked almost normal.

"I don't think that's necessary." A small bird sat on a low tree across the stream from them, yellow and lavender and green, its dark beak open as it sang; its trill echoed off the red walls around them, repeating, repeating, repeating.

"Not for your help with the White Legs." This was one of the things she liked about talking to him; they didn't seem to have to spell things out for each other. "For Salt-Upon-Wounds. For...stopping me. I wanted blood atonement."

 _Blood atonement._ Something about those words triggered a coil of fear deep in her belly, and the memory of a white church on a dark hill, the gritty dirt around it stained red with blood. Laughter and gunshots and the sun hot overhead.

Honey shifted uncomfortably, wiped the dust from her hands and watched it drift away, towards the water below. Her hands were clean; she'd bathed the day before, after the remaining White Legs fled. So why did they still smell like blood? She kicked a foot in the stream, watched her big toe drip. The gold crucifix around her neck was heavy and hot in the sun.

"You would have regretted it."

"You saw that, even when I didn't." She could feel him looking at her now, his eyes bright and deep behind his bandages. "And that's why I need to ask you for something more. I know I have no right to ask you to do something when you've already done so much, but I've seen your heart."

Honey felt tired already. She'd known this was coming, had known it from the moment she'd asked him to spare the White Legs' leader. There was always a price to pay for mercy.

"You want me to go back."

"This canyon is not your home." His voice was soft, apologetic. The tone if it didn't make her feel any better. "You came here because you were running from something."

She pulled the Mark of Caesar from her pocket and handed it to him, the rough calluses on her fingers catching the frayed bandages on his. For a moment she could smell him, a hint of Abraxo and gunpowder, and she wondered what he'd been like before. She knew he'd been part of the Legion, but it was still hard to understand that the calm, thoughtful man before her had been the dreaded Malpais Legate.

"He wants to see you," Joshua said, his fingers pressing the pendant back into her palm. She nodded again, a little miserably, and stuffed it into her pocket. "You should go."

At this she turned her head to face him. "I'd rather stay here."

Joshua sighed a little, looking out at the bird on the tree branch across from them. It had stopped singing and instead was settling down to sleep, tucking its head under its wing.

"You want to be like that bird. You want to come to Zion and just exist. Pretend the rest of the world has ceased to be. But you can't do that. Caesar will keep sending assassins after me as long as he walks the Earth. With the White Legs gone, he'll know I'm safe. These people won't be safe while Caesar leads the Legion."

"I just wanted to protect them." _Some people need hurting,_ she didn't say.

"The Sorrows?" She nodded. "You did. But this is not your home. Your home lies to the south. Your fight is in Vegas."

"The last time I was there - it almost killed me."

Joshua chuckled. She didn't know he was capable of it, but there it was, a low laugh that made her lips curl up into a weak imitation of a smile.

"You're recovering."

"I didn't mean my body," she said, gesturing to the scar on her temple.

"Neither did I."

She turned away from his bright gaze again, looking down at the water. He was right; she'd known from the moment she'd killed the first White Legs tribal, minutes after entering the canyon. She wanted to belong here, but she didn't. And there was still work to do.

Honey reached both hands up under the fall of her hair and unhooked the delicate clasp of the gold chain. The crucifix came into the light, reflecting gold on the water, in her eyes, against the white bandages Joshua wore. His eyes watched it, and she could feel his body go still beside her. She reached out, placed it in his hand, and folded his fingers over it.

"I'd like you to have this."

"Are you sure -"

"Yes," she cut him off. "There are some things I need to forget."

The chain winked in the light as Joshua slid the necklace into his shirt pocket. It reminded her of her mamá, of her warm brown arms and strong hands that held her tightly. Her head pulsed again; she'd need another dose of Med-X before she went to sleep. She could set out in the morning.

"It was your mother's." It wasn't a question. "I never thought I'd see it again."

So it was true, then. The memory of her mother's emphatic voice had come to her in the night. It had told her of their tribe's life before subjugation, of the way they'd scratched out a living in the desert, hunting geckos and brewing tequila and remedies. When she was a girl, the only thing they brewed any more was healing powder.

 _"Now, mi hija, take this. If anyone stops you, show them this and tell them the Malpais Legate gave it to you and that you need to return it to him. Reparte, por favor."_

 _She'd nodded, trying to stay calm._

 _"Walk at night and hide during the day. Go south, go back to the old country. We might still have family down there." Warm arms around her neck - she couldn't be more than five or six - and her mother's dry lips on her cheek. "Te amo."_

The memory faded after that; she still didn't know what happened to the little girl her mamá had called Mercedes between that cool evening when she was small and scared and the day she'd woken up in Doc Mitchell's house. She didn't know what part the man before her had played.

"Could you tell me about her?"

Joshua was quiet, clearly thinking. He bowed his head a little and the pristine bandages on the top of his head glowed in the fading sunlight. His eyes, the same bright blue as her own, were rimmed with tears. She watched him with a clinical sort of detachment, despite the fact that she'd finally found him, without entirely knowing what she was looking for.

"María - oh. She was so kind. So warm and...funny." His voice broke and he shook his head.

"She was your slave."

Joshua sat up straight, swiped his eyes, and suddenly his cool demeanor was back. "She was. It's just - that's the way the Legion is."

"You were part of it." In Honey's hand, Lucky's grip is smooth and dry. Her hand is steady. She could kill him right here, right now. It would be so easy.

It's why she came, isn't it?

"I was. And I regret it. I've tried to serve Our Heavenly Father every day since." He gestured to the camp behind them, the Dead Horses beginning to pack up for their journey home. Smoke from the campfire drifted across the sandy ground and dispersed around the creek.

She tightened her hand on Lucky, debating with herself. Was it worth seeking vengeance for a life she didn't remember?

"Do what you must," he said, turning away from her to look back over the stream below them. "I deserve whatever it is you have planned."

Quietly, Honey slid the pistol back into its holster, snapped the fine leather strap over it.

"So. Anything I should know before I walk into the Legion?"

Joshua turned his face slightly to look at her. She couldn't see him mouth under the bandages, but his eyes told the story of a smile as they crinkled at the edges.

"You're their guest, so don't act like a slave."

She snorted. "Wasn't planning on it."

"Bring a man with you."

"I'll be fine alone."

His hand rested on hers, hot and scratchy under the bandages. "Trust me. Make sure you have help. Bring a man. It's one of the few things they'll understand."

She nodded. "Anything else?"

"When you finally kill Caesar, tell him hello from me."

* * *

Utah was going to be the undoing of him. The heat was oppressive and heavy, like a living resentful thing that wanted nothing more than to smother him. John had already stripped down to a sleeveless shirt under his armor but didn't dare removed the reinforced leather - raiders and deathclaws weren't exactly known for giving you five minutes' notice to get your gear on before they attacked.

He sat on the back of the wagon, looking out at the heat sizzling on the faded and cracking black asphalt. Hard to believe he'd been on the road for two months. Maybe longer? Two and a half? With all the Jet he'd been taking lately, it was hard to tell what the normal progression of time was anymore. There wasn't even a breeze to help him cool down; he reached his hands into his hair, threading the dark curls between his fingers, and twisted the shaggy length into a ponytail. It probably looked ridiculous, but he felt a little cooler with the weight of it gone from his neck.

Next to him, Nicole was practically panting. She and Bruiser had apparently fallen out as fast as they fell in; he drove their wagon with a characteristic stony silence. Nicole's blonde hair was dusty and damp, plastered to her head. She held a can of water that she sipped from every so often, but she looked terrible, wan and exhausted and too fucking hot.

John understood the feeling. He offered her the Jet and she took it without looking at him. Her puff was as slow as his own, and she didn't breathe back out for a long time. When she'd finally let it out, he took a last hit before storing the pink tube in his pack. He scanned the road behind them, as he'd been hired to do, but there was nothing to see, nothing but rocks and desert and billboards. Everything else was empty. He'd never regretted anything in his life as much as he regretted joining this caravan.

The wagon creaked to a halt in the middle of the road. Nicole didn't move, but John stood, shotgun at the ready.

Blackbird, driving the first wagon, was stopped in the road and talking to some woman. The woman in question was alone, which raised the hairs on his arms. She wore creased dark brown leather armor and had a massive rifle slung over her back, as well as a pistol on her right hip and a combat knife the size of his arm stuffed in one of her boots. Her hair was dark, nearly black, and blew loose in the wind under her cowboy hat. The far back he couldn't get a good look at her but he could see from the way she held herself that she was probably able to use all the weapons she carried.

Blackbird made a motion to the back of the wagons, and the woman nodded, tipping her hat at the caravan leader in an endearing, old-fashioned gesture. The first wagon began rolling forward, and there was the sound of the woman climbing into the front of theirs. Bruiser was quiet as ever, then there was the sound of the leads slapping the brahmin's hide, and the wagon lurched forward, taking John and Nicole with it.

They stopped for the night at a valley lined with brilliant fiery rock walls. There was a river or a lake, and when John was assigned care for the brahmin, he took the thirsty animals down there for a drink. The new woman was there, washing her face and hands. She'd taken off the top piece of her armor but wore a threadbare white tank that had clearly seen better days. She was lean, muscular; whoever this woman was, the desert had shredded her down to the essentials only.

Piled neatly on top of her chest piece was the cowboy hat and a Pip-Boy. He watched, trying not to look like he was watching, as she splashed her face and returned from the riverbank, her face with a towel.

"Oh. Hi." He couldn't help staring at her. She had very striking features - enormous bright blue eyes lined in thick dark lashes, skin the color of whiskey, shiny dark hair. Her nose was strong, as was her jaw - no one would call her pretty, exactly, but there was something about her just the same. The most fascinating thing about her was the puckered, livid scar that began over one eye and continued under her hair. That temple was sunken, smaller than the other. He tried not to stare.

"Can I help you?" She looked at him nakedly. Her voice was low, steady, with an accent different from Jack and Blackbird's twangy drawl. It sounded like sunshine and spices.

"Heard you were traveling with us. Thought I'd say hello while I watered the brahmin." He smacked one hand on the flank of the beast next to him. The brahmin's side was hot with exertion and sweat, and he immediately regretted it as several long burgundy hairs came back with him. He slapped his hand on his pants, trying to remove the hairs and instead just gluing them to the soft corduroy.

When he looked back up, she was smiling. Her eyes were a little glassy; Med-X, or brain trauma?

"Well, it's nice to meet you then," the woman said, working a stubborn knot out of the end of her hair with deft fingers.

"John." He held out his pack of cigarettes, already opened, and watched as she took one. Her fingers were long, tanned as darkly as the rest of her, with neatly-trimmed nails, though there was a little grime under them. He flicked his lighter on and she bent forward, allowing him to light the cigarette for her.

"Honey."

She drew in a plume of smoke and released it. He pulled out a cigarette of his own and lit it without ceremony. Behind her, the river rippled in the breeze, the small waves rushing away from shore.

"So what's a dame like you doing out here all alone in the middle of a desert?" He gave her a wink; a small smile worked its way across her face, one that didn't reach her eyes and somehow communicated that she was just humoring him.

"I have to run an errand for my father." If that was true, John would eat his hat. If he had a hat, that was.

Women like this didn't have anything as mundane as fathers; she was a snake given human shape, all sinew and bone, and whatever she was up to was dangerous... and, obviously, a secret.

"What about you?" Her face was coy; she knew he didn't believe her. A game of lies, then? He might as well tell the truth then. No one would believe it anyway.

"I didn't have anywhere else to be."

The laugh he earned here was real, genuine. He could tell by the twinkle in her eye, by the way she reached up and rubbed the angry scar over her eye. She dropped her hand, rifled around in her pile of stuff for a moment, and brought out a flask.

My kind of girl, he thought, as she took a long pull from the bottle. When she'd finished, she offered it to him; he found himself coughing and choking before he could swallow. He spit on the ground, hacking up what felt like an entire lung and part of his stomach. Finally he stood up again and looked her in the eye. She took another sip, much shorter this time, and gave him a smile.

"You ok?"

"What the hell is that?"

"Es tequila," she told him, taking a third swig and beginning to twist the lid shut.

"Tequila, huh? He finally was able to stand vertically, and he beckoned to her with one hand. "Mind if I try that again?"

She raised her eyebrows; half of the one under the scar barely moved, but he got the point just the same. He waved his hand at her again and she shrugged, handing him the flask.

"Your funeral."

John raised the flask to his lips and took another drink. This time he expected the harshness, but he was also pleasantly surprised by how fruity and light the flavor was. It went down more easily. With his dignity somewhat restored, he twisted the cap on the flask closed and handed it back to her. She still looked at him silently, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Well," he said, grabbing the lead of the closest brahmin, "I should probably get back, get these staked out somewhere safe for the night.

The sun was setting; he would have known it even without the change in the light as the temperature began to drop. After sweltering all day, he felt a shiver trace its way up his spine where his skin cooled under the layer of sweat inside his clothes.

"It was nice to meet you, John. Thanks," she waved the cigarette at him as he turned to lead the massive animals back up the hill.

"You, too. Thanks for the...whatever that was." Another small smile from her as she took another sip of tequila.


	6. Troubles By the Score

Way Back Home: Troubles By the Score

* * *

"Wake up, asshole." The angry voice was accompanied by a boot connecting - and not gently - with his foot. John groaned and tried to bury his face further under his blanket, but there was another kick, against his shin this time. Ok, that one hurt. He sat up, covering his eyes from the bright morning sun with one hand.

"What the fuck d'you want?" His voice was hoarse, more a grunt that anything else.

Blackbird stood over him, arms crossed. He blinked a few times, trying to make out the expression on her face. Behind her, Jack's bulk was menacing. When he scrubbed his eyes with the back of one hand, he was able to see what he'd suspected - they both looked pissed. He tried to think back to the night before, to figure out what he might have done to inspire this wake-up call, but everything came up blank.

 _Nicole._ He blinked stupidly up at Blackbird and her brother as things started returning to him. She'd come to him in the night, _wanting,_ her hands down his pants, her lips drunkenly caressing his throat. And again, he hadn't wanted any part of that - he'd just taken a big hit of Med-X and wanted to watch the stars dance, not tumble with a confused little girl. He'd told her to leave him alone and in the darkness he'd seen something flit through her eyes, something resolute and cold.

"What's going on?" He tried again, tried to sound more concerned this time as he crawled out of his makeshift bed.

"The girl."

"Nicole," Jack clarified.

"That's right," Blackbird waved a hand at her brother. " _Nicole._ She's gone."

No real surprise there. John didn't know how long a waif like that would survive out in the unforgiving desert, but he thought again of the expression she'd given him when he shooed her away, and found that he'd expected this for a while.

"Didn't think you'd care," he drawled, searching his pockets for his cigarettes. When he found them, he pulled one out and lit it, then maneuvered to standing, trying to ignore the pops in his dodgy hip. Not even forty and already - oh well. He might still be shorter than Blackbird and her enormous brother, but at least it made him feel less powerless to be standing level with them.

"I don't," the caravan leader said dryly. "What I do care about is that she helped herself to one of my brahmin and loaded it with two cases of UltraJet and a box of grenades."

John choked on his cigarette smoke and coughed. Behind the caravaneers, he could see Bruiser and Honey sitting by the campfire, their backs to him, sharing a can of Cram and a bottle of something. He wondered if he was about to be shot. He wondered if he'd be left alive for the desert to take him, or if they'd finish the job.

"That's unfortunate," he said finally, meeting the woman's dark eyes. "You sure she wasn't taken by raiders or something?"

"There was a note." Jack held out a tattered piece of paper. Scrawled on it were just two lines:

 _I hate you all. Thanks for the Jet._

 _Nicole_

John took another puff of his cigarette, tried to think of what to say. Tried to maintain his composure.

"How do I know you two weren't in on this together?" Blackbird's hand strayed to the pistol at her hip. It was a massive .44, weathered but still deadly. He'd traveled far enough with her to know her aim was true and she wouldn't hesitate.

"Maybe you meet her somewhere down the road. Split the profits," Jack rumbled from behind her. John could see the sledge in the big man's hands, and for the first time he felt really, truly nervous.

"Try to do a good thing and get fucked anyway," he muttered, looking down as he dropped the cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under one boot. He raised his head again, met Blackbird's eye. "Look, I may not be the most... _trustworthy_ guy you've ever hired, but I'm telling you I had nothing to do with this."

Blackbird's lips were a thin pink line. John knew the look in her eyes - she was trying to figure out whether she believed him or not. Behind her, behind Jack, he saw Honey had turned; she still sat on the big pink rock, but now one hand held a small knife. She was clearly watching their exchange with interest, but something about that made him feel more comfortable, not less. Interesting.

"Fine. Job stops here then," the tall woman stopped, turning on her heel, and marched away from him. Jack followed a little slower, his face stiff as he pounded the sledge in his hands once as if to prove a point.

 _Here._ Job stopped _here?_ Where the fuck even _was_ here, and when would he get paid?

John caught himself on a boulder and charged after them, his feet moving faster than his brain.

"Now just wait a minute -" He shouldered past Jack and put one hand on Blackbird's shoulder, guiding her into a spin to meet his eyes. She arched one eyebrow and this time the threat of her gun wasn't subtle; she had it out and aimed right for his gut. Well, fuck her. He was still owed something.

"I thought I was clear."

"No you fucking weren't. It's not my fault that girl stole and ran off -"

"It's your fault she was here in the first place." If there had been a drop of water about, the boss's voice could have chilled it to ice.

"That might be true, but I've been with you since the Commonwealth. You _owe_ me, lady."

The laugh she gave him was infectious; it spread from her to Jack, whose chuckle was like a roll of thunder, deep and threatening. Bruiser had appeared over Blackbird's shoulder as well, and he joined in, chuckling darkly as he picked at his nails with an enormous combat knife.

"You'll take your hand off me, you little junky, or I'll _owe_ you a bullet in the face," Blackbird told him, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. "I've fed your sorry ass - not to mention that useless girl you insisted come too - and because of you I'll be out caps for this trip. You're lucky I don't stake you to the ground for the cazadors."

John's hand went limp and slipped from Blackbird's shoulder; he certainly didn't mean to drop it. He wasn't scared of a little pain. But he was so shocked by the venom in her tone that he found his entire body loosening.

It was over. He was stuck in the desert, over two thousand miles from home with no caps and no idea where to go, or how to get there. He turned and walked back to his things as the others began to pack up. Another fucking failure; another squandered chance. He trudged back to his bedroll and dropped onto it. In his bag was a can of water and some -

No. No, no, that little _bitch._

His bag was almost completely empty. A carton of dirty water, a half-drunk bottle of scotch, a spare pair of skivvies, and an almost-empty inhaler of Jet. Everything else - his clean clothes, cans of pure water, the Fancy Lad Snack Cakes he'd been hording, the good whiskey he'd been hanging on to for a special occasion, all his fucking chems - they were all gone. The bag was barren as the goddamn desert around him.

He wanted to let out a wail of frustration and disgust that he'd saved that girl from slavery and she'd fuckin' stole from him -

"Looks like you're in a spot of trouble," Honey's voice came over his shoulder, her tone calm and a little amused.

"Sure looks like it." _Yes, it fucking does, John._

"Need a smoke?" She settled on the bedroll next to him, looking out over the horizon. He took a cigarette from the pack she offered him, and she lit it for him with a faint smile. They smoked quietly for a moment, John's brain spinning as he tried to think what he was going to do next. Where he would go. How he would find it by himself. How he'd pay for things when he got...wherever.

Fuck. He'd really been counting on those caps.

"Got any ideas on what you'll do next?"

John laughed; the sound was bitter. He didn't miss the small smile that Honey gave him, as if she found all this funny.

"No fuckin' idea, babe. Wait - didn't they just leave without you?"

This time she smiled for real. It was a pretty smile; her teeth were all there and white against her tan skin and her full pink lips. He couldn't help but see the sharpness behind it, too.

"Fuck 'em," she said, stretching her legs out and looking down the valley. "Don't need 'em and I'm not headed to Vegas anyway. I was just putting off what I have to do going back to the Strip."

"And what's that?"

She turned to face him again, her eyes running over him slowly from the top of his head down to the toes of his boots; when she flicked her eyes back up to meet his, he had the uncomfortable feeling of having been laid bare, stripped down to his core and judged.

"I told you. I'm running an errand for my dad."

"That story again." He took a puff of the stale cigarette and blew the smoke back out. It drifted away to the pink and orange rocks below.

"It's the truth," she said quietly. "In its own way."

Maybe he'd misjudged her.

"Why don't you come with me?" She didn't look at him as she said this; she kept her eyes on the valley, and he could see why; the rocks glowed in the morning sun, and he fancied he could see waves of heat rising off them.

"I dunno," he teased. "You know I've got so many fine offers. What's the pay?"

"Two hundred caps if you help me get in and out of where I need to be in one piece." Damn. Less than what Blackbird's going rate had been. Still, beggars can't choose and all.

"Is it going to be dangerous?"

She turned to look him in the eye and her smile was dazzling, and wicked.

"By Mojave standards, or where you come from?"

"Either. Both, I guess."

"Let's just say there's a good chance we'll both be crucified by the end of next week," she told him. John couldn't tell if that was a joke or not, especially with the little laugh she gave. Either way, the thought of a real fight sent a small thrill down his spine. He heard a voice in his head that said: at last.

It felt like his whole life had been building to this moment.

"I'm in."

* * *

It took a whole four hours before Honey started to regret asking him along. It might have been better just to swing by Novac and pick up Boone - they'd have to go through there anyway - and then at least she wouldn't have to deal with the way this guy was looking at her. She had to keep reminding herself that Boone wouldn't have blended in, that his rage against the Legion ran too hot and he'd likely run straight into Caesar's tent and get himself shot before she could figure out what was going on. It was this guy or hire some pendejo out of the Atomic Wrangler who didn't know which end of his gun was the dangerous one. At least John looked like he knew how to use the shotgun he carried, even if he spent half the time they were walking staring at her ass.

The trip to the Grab 'n' Gulp had taken all the daylight they had; she'd briefly considered pushing on into the night, but it would be several more hours walk to the 188 and that seemed like pushing it. If she'd been alone, maybe -

But no, she's promised to bring back-up, and so she was. If this guy could be considered back-up; he might be able to use his shotgun, but he was shaky and sweating after their hike through the desert and guzzling water as fast as Lupe could get it to him. Honey had made the campfire and bought them each a gecko kabob from Fitz. John had taken two bites and started retching and when she saw the red around his eyes it was as if a light went on for her.

She didn't have any memories of seeing chem-users go into withdrawal, but somehow she knew what it was just the same.

When John came back to the fire after vomiting in the dirt by the overpass, she raised her eyebrows and watching him settle back by the fire. Shivers, shaking, sweats, red eyes, vomiting - her guess was Med-X or maybe Jet. Definitely not a Psycho or Slasher user, she'd bet, at least not habitually. Just her luck, hiring a junkie who couldn't even maintain enough of a stash to be functional.

Though she watched him huddle in his blanket against the quickly-dropping desert temperatures, Honey found her mind drift to the syringes of Med-X in the bottom of her pack. She thought of the number of doses she'd taken since the bullet scrambled her up and she felt a wave of - guilt? annoyance? - when she thought of how quickly she'd dismissed him.

Well. There was an easy way to deal with this. She might not have any Jet, but she had enough Med-X to get the two of them through the next week _\- I hope I do, anyway,_ she thought - and after they were done at Caesar's camp maybe they'd take a breather and visit the Followers. Maybe by then Arcade would've worked out something to do about her headaches and she could get treated, take a dose of Fixer, and just sleep until she felt normal again.

A girl could dream, right?

Before she could change her mind, she reached deep into her bag and pulled out a couple syringes of Med-X and pressed them into John's hand. His eyes didn't seem to register what she was doing at first, then she watched as they focused on the slim vials in his hands, on the long silvery needles glinting inside their protective plastic sleeves. His eyes, when they met hers, flashed a series of emotions so quickly she couldn't catch them all - gratitude, surprise, something that hinted at embarrassment. She busied herself with finishing her gecko kabob and finding the outhouse. Best to leave him alone to do what needed to be done.

When she came back to the campfire the syringes were gone, packed away somewhere, and her new companion was glassy-eyed, his hands steady again. Her head was beginning to ache, but she could wait until he nodded off to take her own hit; something in her didn't want him to know her own weaknesses. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

* * *

John couldn't get over how different the countryside was out here; the roads were almost completely bare of old cars, and without the comparative greenery of the Commonwealth, he felt like he could see for miles. Probably he could.

He hadn't said anything to her about the Med-X donation. He would've preferred some Jet, but going through withdrawal, he couldn't be too picky. At least the opiate smoothed all the edges; walking down the highway felt more like floating. He was feeling so good, in fact, that he thought somehow he'd begun to hallucinate when he saw the giant creature standing by the road. It was enormous, bigger than anything he'd seen since he got to this godforsaken desert, taller than the overpass they'd slept near the night before.

Maybe it was the heat. He gave Honey a sidelong glance to see if she noticed it, but between her sunglasses and hat, he couldn't tell her expression. She didn't look like she'd seen a giant gecko or whatever the fuck that thing was, though, so it had to be an hallucination. Right?

But the closer they got, the bigger it was. It almost occurred to him, almost as an afterthought, that the damn thing wasn't moving. It stood perfectly still, towering over the road, mouth agape, and finally John had to ask. He stood in the road, stock-still, and pointed.

"Tell me you're seeing this thing."

Honey turned, rocking back on her heel, and took off her hat. Ran a hand through her sleek hair, let it dance in the breeze. "This thing?" She pointed at the big beast which, he could see now, was a statue. John nodded.

"That's Dinky," she said, as if that explained everything.

Dinky, huh? The fuck?

"Oh, of course," his tone was laced with sarcasm and he thought he saw a smile quirk one side of her lips. "Dinky. How could I forget."

"He's a dinosaur. He's kind of...Novac's mascot."

"Novac."

She gestured at the sad collection of sun-bleached buildings behind the dinosaur.

"I see," he said.

"Hey, Honey, how's it going?" A voice called from above. When John looked up, he saw a man with a dark complexion and a red hat in the creature's mouth. He wondered how hot it might be in there, up in the mouth of a metal dinosaur in the sun.

"Good, Manny. You?" Honey looked up, shading her eyes with one hand. Her leather armor was silent as she moved. John wondered if she was in the habit of sneaking up on people; she moved as if she was. John's thoughts drifted as the two chatted for a few minutes, and then Honey pulled her hat back on and began walking back down the road.

They walked for hours, the sun blazing, and John began to understand why everyone wore long sleeves and pants, despite the heat and the smell of their unwashed sweat. The backs of his hands were glowing red with a vicious sunburn by the time the sun went down, and he was astonished by how much that tender skin hurt. Honey'd taken them off the main road some time ago, muttering something about "camp Searchlight," which sounded like nonsense to him, but he'd followed her like a good little dog. Now they bumbled through the low desert plants, around cacti and brush. In the distance he saw and honest to go tumbleweed, like he was in one of those old Western holotapes he saw at the library.

What the actual fuck had he been thinking, following this mad broad off into the desert? He was gonna die out here.

Caps, he reminded himself. Enough caps to get a place to stay for a night, maybe one with a real bed, maybe a dame with big tits to share it. Maybe some booze and some Jet and time to formulate a plan to get back home.

There wouldn't be any fun nights in Vegas if he didn't get paid, after all.

* * *

Honey had planned for them to sleep in the old sniper's nest overlooking the river that night. She'd wanted to rest, to take a hit of Med-X to push back the headache that threatened to split her head in two, and walk into Cottonwood Cove recharged and calm. But when she peered over the ridge to look down at the camp, the scope on her rifle revealed something she hadn't anticipated - slaves. New ones, from the look of it; they weren't in the uniform yet, all trapped in an exposed cage despite the chill of the evening, all wearing collars. Three of them, a woman, a teenage girl, and a young boy.

A family.

It was the girl that worried her the most. She had a good idea what was waiting for her. There was the memory of screaming, as a girl was taken away. A sister? She couldn't remember. All she could remember was the nail-biting fear, the sensation that when she saw her again, the older girl wouldn't be the same. She'd be changed, somehow, not who she was supposed to be.

For a moment Honey felt and overpowering rage - a red veil seemed to fall over her head, and the scars on her temple began to pulse fiercely. Her heart was erratic - she could feel it in her chest, battering against her ribs, frantic to get out - and no matter how many times she counted to ten, she couldn't seem to calm herself. It was a hand on her shoulder that jolted her out of herself, that made her look up and see the concern written across John's face. His dark brows furrowed, his lips slightly turned down - it was clear he knew something was up.

Well, of course he did; she was hyperventilating like a fucking crackpot. He probably thought she was going to die before she paid him.

 _Think, Honey,_ she told herself. _Averiguarlo._ _You can do this._

She blinked a couple times, trying to clear her vision. John kept his eyes locked on hers the whole time and while she knew she should be frustrated at him - she could feel his cool hands around her own now - she found something about the contact soothing. Before she could think about it too hard, she realized her breathing had normalized. She was calming down.

"I know what you need," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that there was no way the guys below would hear it. He took his hands from hers and reached into his own bag, pulling out the half-empty bottle of cheap scotch, a syringe of Med-X, and a rubber strap. Part of her wanted to tell him no, that he'd gotten her all wrong, but another part of her was melting into a puddle at the thought of that needle in her vein. When he looked back up at her, asking permission with his eyes, she gave a nod, quickly before she could change her mind.

There's something alarmingly intimate about another person helping you shoot up. It was clear he'd done this before - but then again, she knew that. He wrapped the thin piece of rubber he used as a tourniquet around her bicep, just above the elbow, and splashed the grimy skin there with the scotch. After a little poking around, they could both see the blue of her veins showing under her skin, and he locked eyes with her one last time as he pulled the protective plastic cover off the syringe.

She nodded again, and there was the unpleasant prick of the large needle sliding into her skin, then the rush of ice down her arm as the chem made its way into her system. One nice thing about having another person there to help was that he untied the rubber, he pulled the needle from her arm, and helped her lean up against the support of the sniper's shack when her head began to loll.

The red veil dropped; the headache fled, by inches if not by miles. She knew she'd be useless for the next few minutes, but when she walked into that camp at least she'd be able to keep it together.

Time passed in dribs and drabs as she seemed to float above her body. Around her the desert was full of night sounds: bighorners snuffling about over a ridge, Legion soldiers chatting as they went about their duties, a yelp from a coyote somewhere over the ridge. Eventually she became aware that John was smoking a cigarette and watching her carefully. She opened her eyes wider and gestured vaguely at the hand that held the cigarette; after a moment he handed it to her, and she brought it lazily to her mouth.

The headache didn't like for her to smoke, but fuck it. She deserved this. She took a long, leisurely drag, allowing the smoke to fill her up from head to toe, and then exhaled for what felt like a year. Then again. Then a third time.

"So. I should probably tell you something about the Legion."

"Might be a good idea," John replied. He pulled a cigarette for himself out of the pack and lit it. For a moment she wondered if the flare of the lighter might attract any Legionaries, then figured they'd cross that bridge when it came to them. Or they came to it. Whatever.

"The Legion -" But then she didn't know what to say. Where to start. "They're at war. With the NCR."

"NCR?" What the fuck? Where was this asshole from, Mars?

"The New California Republic? Out west?" Still a blank on his face. "You're not from around here, are you?"

He laughed. "Not exactly. Came from back east." _East._ _Legion territory._

"So you know about the Legion?"

Another laugh from him. "Farther east than that, I think. Probably farther from the north, too. You ever hear of the Commonwealth?" She shook her head, though it felt like boulders rolling inside her skull. He laughed.

"Ok, ok, cabrón, you made your point," she took another hit of the cigarette, then crushed it out in the dirt. "The Legion are the bad guys. The really bad guys, you understand? And they got something I need. Tengo problemas - I have big problems, entiendes?" The clouds in her head were making it difficult to focus on just one language and she shook it delicately, as if that might help. It didn't.

"Sounds like you pissed somebody off."

"Not yet - but I will have soon if I don't get down to that camp and meet their leader. He calls himself Caesar."

"You mean like Caesar?" He pronounced it the way the Legion did, and she felt her skin grow cold. For all his talk about being from farther east than the Legion, what did she really know about this guy? All she knew was that he knew how to use chems and needed the caps he'd earn by following a stranger off to die. Should she - No. She filed it away for future reference and began gathering her things. They'd wasted enough time here.

"The thing you need to know is - well, they might well kill us. But I see some people down there in a slave cage and I gotta help them. I won't blame you if you take off. Won't pay you, either, but you might live to see tomorrow and I can't guarantee that if you come with me."

John shrugged, clambering to his feet. For such a narrowly-built guy, he certainly projected a larger presence. She was amazed at how difficult it looked like it was for him to get his long limbs to cooperate.

"People need help, we help 'em," he said, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, and it was at that moment that Honey decided to take a risk and trust this strange man she'd met in the desert. Because that had never come back to bite her in the ass before.


	7. When You Came Back Again

Way Back Home:

Notes: This chapter has some graphic depictions of violence/torture. Please be forewarned if that's a trigger for you. It's all canon-typical but came out pretty explicit.

* * *

"I thought you were kidding."

"Why would I make up something like _this?"_ Honey looked at him with one dark brow arched as if she couldn't believe what he's saying. A cigarette hung from her lips, the smoke tracing the outline of her jaw in the moonlight.

Before them, a man - John thought it was a man, anyway, although it's hard to tell under all the grime and malnutrition - hung from a cross. He couldn't tell if the guy was breathing, but if he was he wouldn't be for long. Honey had her pistol - a little thing, white-handled, with some sort of rounded symbol on the side - in one hand, and before he could register what was happening, the shot cracked out. The crucified man's head rocked back; a small hole was left in his forehead. Blood dripped from the entry wound in sluggish dark rivulets down his face. Through the whole thing, he never made a sound.

John still couldn't wrap his head around it - actual people hung on crosses. He had a thousand questions but somehow none of them seemed to be able to make their way out of his mouth. Instead he asked the only one he already knew the answer to.

"Why did you do that?"

Honey looked at the body of the man hung before them, took another calm drag of her cigarette. The corpse's hands were scarred and scabbed where the posts had been driven through them. His body, ravaged under the tattered rags he wore, told a story of whippings and beatings. Long, half-healed scars competed with dark purple and green bruises for John's attention, and he wanted to look away. But he didn't; this was the Legion. He needed to understand what they were up against.

"It was a mercy," he said, finally looking away from the tragedy hanging before them. Honey's eyes were clear, but he wondered if it was because of the Med-X or simply because she'd seen too many things like this. She nodded, tossed her cigarette butt to the pavement, then turned and walked down the road to the camp they'd seen from the sniper's nest. His feet were tired and it was hard to see anything around them in the dark, despite the almost-full moon above, and he scrambled to catch up with her. Damn woman could walk forever, he thought.

He'd barely caught up with her when a sentry stopped them. The guy wore some crazy get-up - was that a skirt? - but he carried the spear in his hand with a dignity that told John that he was dangerous. There was a large mutt on the guy's heels, but this was no friendly pup; he could see the sharpness of the creature's teeth, and John thought he'd never be able to outrun that thing if he needed to. For the first time, he began to wonder what exactly Honey's plan _was._ While he didn't mind a spot of violence, he didn't think the two of them could take down the whole camp.

The hairs on his arms started to stand up, but he stood still next to the boss as she explained their presence. Instead of watching her - she could watch herself - he looked around the camp, taking in the orderly tents, the small bathrooms, the pen filled with people that they'd seen from atop the hill. The stiff posture of the soldiers around him made him nervous and he'd never wanted a cigarette so badly as he did that moment. He followed her rules though and kept them tucked away in his pack.

A _pen_ full of _people._ Like these assholes were super mutants or something, or the people in there were brahmin. He felt yellow bile, the sour stuff, rising in his throat and swallowed harshly.

"Let's go," Honey gestured to him, and they were led to a small tent.

"You may stay here for the evening. Join Cursor Lucullus to take the boat at first light. Caesar has been waiting," the sentry told them. They were shuttled inside, the flap closing behind them in a whiff of oiled leather. Inside were two bedrolls and a lantern. Honey dropped onto one of the bedrolls as if she was too tired to stand, and for a moment, John thought he could see what this was costing her. She pulled her hat off, tossed it aside, and ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair.

John settled across from her on the other bedroll, suddenly shy. For all that he'd spent the last two days with her he realized he didn't know the first thing about this woman. She didn't look at him; her fingers were fiddling with the Pip-Boy on her left wrist. After a moment, music came out, loudly at first, and then she turned the volume down. Some weepy number about a guy named Guitar-something or something-guitar; John wasn't listening that closely because he was looking at her, at the dark fall of her hair and the studious expression on her face, trying to figure her out.

The song ended and John found he was grateful for the silence. He only had it for a moment before the announcer came on, cheerfully saying something about putting on a "newsman fedora." He wondered if this guy always sounded like this, and where he got his chems.

"Refugees at Bitter Springs are giving startling accounts of the Legate, known as Lanius, who is said to be Caesar's top field commander," the Pip-Boy chirped. "One refugee told us that "The Legate took over an "under-performing" squad of troops by beating its commander to death in full view of everyone." The Legate then ordered a tenth of his own troops to be killed by the other nine-tenths. And you-"

Honey abruptly turned the radio off. When he turned to look at her, her skin had noticeably paled, and her eyes were very dark. She was looking right at him. He was still trying to understand what he'd just heard, trying to understand what it meant.

"The Legate - Lanius - he's some big-wig with these Legion guys?"

Honey nodded.

"Do you know if that story was true?" Easily half the shit Piper printed was bull, so maybe there was good reason to believe this was all made up. He just couldn't think why a military commander would want a tenth of his troops killed.

Actually - scratch that. He could. And it was fucking terrifying.

Across the tent, she shrugged. He stared at her blankly and finally she said, "Tal vez. Maybe, it wouldn't surprise me. Guy like him -" she shrugged. "He's done worse."

Outside the tent, John could hear laughter across the camp. What had sounded like some young guys having fun just a few moments ago now sounded sinister. Maybe trying to sleep here was a mistake. Maybe they _should've_ stayed at the sniper's nest.

"When I first woke up after -" she gestured at the scar on her forehead, at her shrunken temple and crooked eyebrow, "I went to the town of Nipton, kind of to the west of here."

"And?" He was surprised she was volunteering anything; she hardly ever spoke this much to him. Probably didn't trust him; given the bit she knew about him - possible thief, definite chem-abuser - it made sense. Still, it gave him a thrill deep in his guts to realize she was opening up just a little.

"It was - destroyed, completely fucked. Half the two hung on crosses, some of them burned. They - " She paused and, fuck, was she shaking? "They had a lotería -"

"A what?"

"A, uh, a lotería? Where you draw tickets and then they pick a winner?"

"Do I want to know what they won?" No, he thought to himself, he certainly did not. Probably got eaten by dogs or something.

"The winner - he got off scot-free. I think he was a little loco, though, after all that. Second place -" Here he thought he saw her shaking again. "He was beaten too badly to walk. By the time I found him, I don't think any doctor alive could have helped him. I gave him some Med-X."

John thought he knew what that meant. Lesson learned: she was merciful. But mercy sometimes isn't always a happy ending.

"The townspeople -" she stopped again. Her eyes had drifted from him to look at the floor of the tent, as if it was too painful to look him in the eye as she recalled it all. "They planned it with the Legion. Thought they would be spared, that it was some deal they were getting. They were all slaughtered." John thought he'd never heard a tone so bitter.

"So - you ask me if the stories of Lanius are true. Probably," she looked back up, her eyes meeting his again. "I hope not. But they probably are."

He felt like he was going to be sick. Burning people alive, crucifying half a town, having a lottery - he didn't know which part of it was most horrifying. Could it be all of it? Could it just be the part that he'd walked into their camp knowing none of it? For a moment he felt a hot flash of anger at her, for letting him come here with her, for not telling him all this up front.

Then his own voice, brave in its ignorance, floated back to him: _People need help, we help 'em._

Well, wasn't that just great.

He knew - of course he knew - that there was something she still hadn't told him. Probably a lot of somethings, and they were all probably awful. That legate from the radio, he was probably her ex-boyfriend or something, or Caesar was her uncle, or whatever. This was personal to her, he could see it in the way she'd set her chin when she saw the slaves in the pen. And he had a right to know it if he was gonna risk his life here.

"So what's your connection with these, uh, people?"

Honey looked at him, and for a moment he regretted asking, even if he did have good reasons to want to know. Her face closed off entirely, blue eyes cold. She stared at him for one minute, two, three. The silence stretched thin, almost long enough for him to speak again, and then:

"I'll you. Another time, when we're not... _here,_ " she gestured at the tent, at the camp surrounding them. At this, she lay down, still in her armor and boots, and with her back to him, seemed to drop off completely.

* * *

First light came irritatingly early; he was woken by a crunching noise across the tent. Left to his own devices, John would rather stay in bed another few hours until it was high in the sky, but then he remembered where he was. In a camp occupied by jerk-offs that crucified people in the middle of the fucking desert. If he stayed here he'd either be killed by the assholes or roasted by the sun before lunchtime. He cracked an eye open, saw Honey snacking on a can of potato chips.

She offered them to him with no preamble, and he took a few. After what he'd seen the night before he didn't know how well he'd keep food down, and when he tried to swallow he found he'd been right; they didn't want to go. They spent a few minutes gathering their things, and then he found her pressing a syringe into his hand. Med-X.

"These cabróns - they don't like chems. If you need to - well, today isn't a good day for you to go through withdrawal. So if you need a hit to get straight -" There was something cute about the way she offered the chems to him, the way she couldn't seem to say exactly what she meant.

 _Obviously not a habitual user before her injury,_ he thought. _If she were, she'd be shameless about it._

John took the hint and wasted no time. Her pupils were pinpricks in her vivid blue irises, and he wondered if it was from the darkness of the tent or if she'd dosed herself before he woke up. He'd seen her rubbing her head enough to know she got headaches, probably related to whatever happened to her. The look on her face when he'd administered the chem to her the night before lingered behind his eyes - the way she'd looked both annoyed at him and, as the drug made its way through her system, relieved. She wasn't just a recreational user - this was the only thing keeping her going.

Something about that made him indescribably sad.

"So what's the plan, boss?" He packed away his empty syringe, his bottle of scotch, his rubber strap. Moved his elbow a couple times to relieve the small pain the needle made, and felt his feet grow cold.

A small smile from Honey as she pulled her sunglasses on. She rifled around in her bag and offered him another pair; he took the hint and slid them on. Snazzy.

"I need to talk to a man about some slaves. Then we're gonna take a boat ride up the river."

"And when we get where we're going?"

"I guess we'll see."

John followed her out of the tent.

* * *

The three people in the slave pen looked like a family. Stupid him, he was _stunned_ to see them wearing collars. After the crucifixion and the radio report the night before, he didn't know what he expected, but somehow - well, it wasn't fucking _collars_ on fucking _people._

Honey barely looked at them, instead walking to a tall soldier in Legion red who stood near the cage, watching the river. The man turned, giving her a confused look, and then nodded when he saw the necklace she wore; a large silver disc on a plain leather strap.

"Ave, true to Caesar," the legionary said as his face worked into a frown. "You really shouldn't keep Caesar waiting, Courier."

The smile Honey gave him looked as easy as it was heartbreaking, and John tried not to gape; it didn't seem possible that the dazzling creature standing before him was the same tired-looking woman from just a few moments ago. This gal - well, she'd turn some heads, giant fucking scar or no.

"I'm just here about captures," she said, her voice drifting up an octave. Although he couldn't see her eyes, John could imagine the way she was looking up at the legionary under her lashes. The legionary turned towards her a bit, his posture relaxing a hair.

"Turning this one in?" The slave-trader gestured behind her to where John stood and for a moment he felt his heart jump. No fucking way was he going to end up in that cage. _She's playing him,_ John thought. _Or she's been playing me. No. That couldn't be - could it?_ But the doubt was sown and now he didn't know what to think.

"No, this one's not for sale," she laughed - no, giggled. It was almost _flirtatious._

No, not _almost._ It _was_ flirtatious - the way she turned her body towards his, the tilt of her head and the tone of her voice, as if she thought he was _so clever._ What kind of game was she playing?

He opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut. Best to play along. He was glad they weren't paying attention to him.

"I'm actually looking to buy." Her voice was a purr now, and John thought he might throw up in his mouth a little, even as it all began to come together. Smart little kitten, this one. He probably would've just charged in here and started cracking skulls, gotten himself shot in the process.

The legionary looked at her, then past her to the pen. He studied the family in the cage, assessing their value so plainly John could practically see him doing counting the caps. "I could let 'em go for three hundred caps."

Honey laughed again, lightly, as if this was funny, as if they weren't talking about the price of human beings. John found he couldn't look away from her; he wasn't sure if it was because of how drastically she'd changed or if it was because it was too depressing to see the resigned expressions the captures wore.

"You've got to be joking," she said. "Anyone could see that girl's got all the symptoms of Pustular Hypomyalgia. I know someone who can fix her up but if you leave her in there, the disease'll spread to any other captures you lock in with her."

The legionary took another step back from the cage. "That doesn't sound good," he said doubtfully. John could practically see the rocks he called brains turning around in his skull.

Honey shook her head; she wasn't wearing her hat, and John could see the legionary watching the way her long hair slipped over her shoulder. It was the same look Vic had when he'd first seen Nicole. It was ugly lust; not desire as he knew it, but the crushing compulsion to conquer. It made John's skin crawl; moments ago he'd sworn Honey knew what she was doing, but now -

"I'll give you one-fifty for the lot," Honey said, back to business. The legionary looked at the pen again, then back at her, and nodded. "Great. Have them ready for me when we return from our meeting with Caesar." She said the leader's name the same way the legionary had, with a hard-C and sharp two-syllable sound.

The legionary agreed, looking for all the world like he wanted nothing to do with the three people in the pen. Honey handed him a small sack of caps and they both watched the slaver count them out, one stack of ten after another until he reached fifteen. She turned back to John and snapped her fingers. He had a moment of annoyance at her - who the fuck did she think she was - before he realized he was supposed to be her slave. When she turned and headed to the boat, he followed, trying to keep the amusement from his face - she'd known how much she would offer for the three, and she'd known what the guy would take.

 _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

Walking through the camp with her was a surreal experience. He'd been surprised by how willingly she gave up her weapons, motioning for him to do the same, though he managed to retain a few small knives that he kept stashed inside his chest piece. The legionary guarding the gate of the Fort seemed loath to inspect him that closely, and John found himself weirdly pleased - it had been quite some time since he'd bathed. He couldn't smell himself anymore, but no doubt the young guy with the mohawk wasn't impressed by his stink; all the Legion guys seemed excessively clean and stiff.

Squares. He wondered what they'd do if he shot himself up with Med-X in the middle of the camp. The thought was almost tempting enough to try it.

Despite the appalling things he'd seen on the way here, John hadn't been prepared for the desolation - the _desperation_ \- inside the walls of the fort. Legionaries roamed around in their skirts and pauldrons, speaking whatever the hell language they were always spouting. Three of them laughed as a woman dressed in rags collapsed under her heavy pack partway up the hill; one of them grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her to her feet, and kicked her hard as she started back up. The other two chuckled again, and John seethed.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out. If you try to pick a fight here with this many of them around, you'll be cut down where you stand._

 _She knows what she's doing. I hope._

As they passed, the legionaries would stop whatever they were doing to stare at Honey, at the subtle curves of her figure under her armor, at the way her hips swung when she walked. Had they always done that? John couldn't remember. He'd noticed before the effect a pretty woman had on men - even him, he was only human after all - but the way they looked at her made him want to grab her hand and pull her out of there. Whatever she was doing here wasn't worth the risk she was taking just _being_ there, he thought. These men would grab her and fuck her until she bled; they'd consume her, _devour_ her, and they'd laugh while they did it. They'd - they'd take turns.

Vic and Finn and Ogre danced behind his eyes, but he kept putting one foot after another, following her up that insane hill, through another gate, and to the big tent at the center of the camp.

 _Run away,_ his brain screamed silently at her. _Run away, run away. Your dad is a fucking crazy person sending a babe like you into this pit. Run away._

Through it all, Honey was as calm as if she were knitting a sweater on a sun-drenched porch somewhere. She didn't even seem to be sweating, despite the fact that it was already as hot as the sun out here and every legionary who passed blatantly stared at her like a cut of meat, like a green girl. He couldn't leave her, no matter how badly he wanted to run, and so John trudged after her to the tent at the top of the hill.

The guard at the tent stopped them. "You must enter Caesar's tent alone," he told her, and John almost winced when she laughed again. It was the same laugh she used on the slaver, but this time the guard didn't budge - at least, not at first. But somehow she turned whatever it was about her brighter, and leaned in towards him, just as she had with the slave trader. Her hips rocked close to his, and her chest got closer to his, and then she was murmuring something and pointing at John and he turned away, stared at the sky, tried to look innocuous.

Finally, the guard nodded, a faint smile on his face. "Fine. But he must stand to the back and not speak."

John thought he could live with that, and so when Honey blew the guard a kiss and slipped under the tent flap and into the inner sanctum, he followed suit. Blew the guard a kiss and everything, and don't think he didn't notice that tightly-wound bastard's eyes widen at the thought of it.

That was the whole point.

* * *

The first thing John noticed as they walked into Caesar's tent was the way Honey _changed,_ again assuming a different posture. This time, instead of the bubble-headed coquette, her posture stiffened and something in the way she moved triggered memories of a centuries-old picture he'd found at the library, one of soldiers heading off to war. Her walk shifted - she hadn't always swung her hips so, he'd been right! - and her hands hung at her sides. She walked through one tent into an open enclosure, into the blazing sun, and stood before a man sitting on a - well, there was no other word for it. It was a goddamn _throne._

He stepped up close enough to whisper: "Is that guy the fuckin' King?"

"No," she murmured back. "You'll meet him later. This is Caesar." She made a small gesture to him with one hand, and he took several steps back, leaning against a tent pole to her right. There were several guards standing around old Grandpa Armchair, and without any weapons he didn't see how they could possibly get out of here alive if things went sour.

He glanced around, trying to see if there was anything around them he could use as a weapon if she needed him to. The tent poles maybe, if he could get one free. There were some books - those might hurt a little if thrown but weren't going to knock anyone out or anything. Not much else - the guards didn't look like they had firearms, but John's hand-to-hand wasn't exactly his strong suit.

So yeah - he _really_ hoped things would go smooth here. And fuck if he wouldn't kill for a cigarette right now.

"You're the courier who's caused so much trouble for my Legion and yet you dare come before me," the old man started. John found he already didn't like the guy himself, just for that tone. Superior, as if the guy had so much to be superior about. But Honey just stood there as the man began listing things she'd done to piss him off.

"The garrison I established at Nelson has been wiped out. The Kings of Freeside are cooperating with the NCR now, which frees up soldiers to defend the dam. And worst of all - _years_ of meticulous scheming to place a mole at Camp McCarran - _wasted._ But you - of all people! - dare to come here and stand before me, the mighty Caesar. What were you thinking?" He really did sound surprised. Not for the first time, John wondered again just what the fuck was going on, even as the insane security began to add up for him. Of course no weapons, of course they wanted him to stay outside the tent. Caesar was afraid of an assassin.

When it was clear the man was ready for her to answer, Honey gave a small shrug. A shrug? John goggled. This guy looked ready to cook and eat her. He had to give it to her - he didn't know what the fuck was going on but it was clearly not good and she looked almost...bored. Impressive broad, that one.

"You guaranteed my safety. I figured that was as good a time to meet you as any." Flippant. Her tone was _flippant._

"And you fell for that? Really?" Because I'm going to have you killed now." Caesar's tone matched hers - bored, disinterested. As if he ordered executions every day.

Actually, he probably did.

John looked again at the tent poles behind Caesar, tried to figure out if he might be able to kick them out at the base to create a distraction so they could run. Or so he could run, anyway. No way in hell was she getting out of this alive. Between his employer and the megalomaniac, the silence stretched thin.

Honey was the first one to crack, but as usual, she didn't do what John expected. She didn't do what John would have done - she didn't create a diversion, kick some guy in the balls, and run off. Nor did she turn on the charm like she had with the door guards, or begin begging for mercy. No - the crazy dame laughed.

It wasn't a pretty laugh. It didn't bubble; it barked out of her. It was genuine, almost - _light._

And then - this stumped him even more - Caesar began to chuckle as well. For the fifth - sixth, seventh? He couldn't keep track anymore - time that day, John wondered just what the fuck was happening.

"Yeah, I'm just fucking with you," Caesar said, leaning back in his seat with a barely-suppressed groan. "You _do_ know why I wanted to meet you, right?"

Honey shifted her posture, and for a moment John swore she glanced at him. He froze, his veins suddenly icy. He saw Caesar's eyes flit towards him as well, and then he realized - they weren't looking at him. He turned, and for the first time noticed a man on the ground behind him; a man as different from the rest of them as a deathclaw from a radstag. This one wore a checkered coat, filthy white pants, hair in a destroyed duck's ass curl. John couldn't see much of his skin, but he sported one black eye and a trickle of dried blood under his nose; his hands were cuffed and he was kneeling in the hard-packed dirt.

"A man nearly kills you," Caesar took his eyes from the man in the fancy coat and dragged them back to Honey. "So you track him across the breadth of the Mojave?" A small nod from Honey. "You arrive on the Strip and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat?" His voice rose, incredulous, and she nodded again - and was that a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth?

"You visited the Tops," Caesar continued, "and next thing you know, the head of the Chairmen is fleeing the Strip like a whimpering little pup?"

"I did not whimper," came an annoyed shout from behind John. There was the sound of something hard connecting with flesh and bone, and then came an actual whimper - and did Honey actually giggle when she heard it?

"When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that." Caesar sighed. "The question is...are you ready to get started?"

"Maybe," Honey said, dragging the word out as she turned to look at the man in the checkered coat again. John stepped back, out of the direct line of sight. He saw Caesar's eyes light on him for a moment, and there was a distinct tightening around his eyes, but then Grandpa Fancy-armor looked past him, too.

"But I get to decide what happens to Benny."

A smile from Caesar. "I assume you mean how he dies." Honey said nothing, but a familiar smile worked its way across her face. It made him think of that day months ago in Diamond City, of Marvin and the ghouls and the hungry way he'd watched them flee. It made John's mouth dry out, and he took another step back, deeper into the corner where the tents came together.

"I accept," she said.

"Let me tell you what I need, then."


	8. I Was Always A Fool (for my Johnny)

Way Back Home: I Was Always a Fool (for my Johnny)

Notes: Wrote almost the whole chapter while listening to Dolly Parton's version of "The House of the Rising Sun" on repeat. 10/10 would do again.

* * *

 _Talk to Benny on your way out. He knows I'm going to let you decide how he dies. Maybe you want to remind him._

The words still reverberated in her skull, careening around and crashing against bone fragments, the bullet that had been too deeply lodged to remove, and the tough gray matter that refused to die, no matter what happened to her. Even down here, in the entrance to the bunker, Caesar's snide voice pounded at her. She needed a dose of Med-X; she needed to be gone again, back in Zion. She needed not to think about all this.

What was the point? She'd never win. She could never do what Benny had asked.

"That guy really shot you in the head?" John's voice pulled her out of her stupor. They'd been strapping their weapons back on, checking their ammunition, making sure everything was accounted for. One thing you could say for these cabrónes, they were fucking organized. They had lists of each item, and everything may have been checked over when they walked through the gate, but when the guards handed their gear back in the weather station, everything was just as she'd left it.

Legion efficiency, same as always.

Honey nodded, looking up at John's eyes. He was studying her carefully, his face nakedly trying to figure her out. He had no idea what the morning had already cost her; it was clear from the narrowing of his eyes that he couldn't tell which person she'd been today was real. When they got out of this she should remember to tell him not to play cards; he couldn't keep his thoughts to himself. His face betrayed them all.

"What's the...what's the deal with you two?" He was trying to sound casual, but you didn't get as far in Vegas as she had without hearing the real question behind his words. _Why haven't you killed him already?_ It was written all over the drawn lines around his mouth, the too-casual tilt of his chin.

"It's complicated." She hated how small her voice was, how timid it sounded. But this wasn't the time. She was sure House would have a way to see and hear them in here. Was she going to do as Benny asked? It wasn't like she owed him anything - whatever they'd been before he killed her, things were different now. Complicated didn't begin to describe it.

John let out an annoyed sound, somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.

"You owe me an explanation here, lady."

Honey paused as she held up her trail carbine. The look she gave him over the sight was calculated, even without the gun pointed at him. "Not right now," she said again. She meant to sound flat but instead was just peevish.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the slick, damp metal wall of the bunker. He was trying to look cool, look tough, but she could tell what he was thinking. He was getting tired of her mysterious bullshit, didn't realize that it wasn't an act but that she was still trying to figure the whole damn thing out.

She didn't blame him.

"I'm not budging another inch until you clue me in."

She never took well to threats. "Fine. Then I'm not paying you. You can find your own way to Vegas." Dios mío her head hurt. The syringe of Med-X she'd stuffed between her breasts seemed to let out an icy pulse, tempting her. After. After they got through whatever waited below.

John locked his eyes on hers. She refused to blink.

So did he.

Finally, she caved, looked away. "Look, I know you have a lot of questions. When we get out of here, when we get back to Vegas, I'll answer whatever you want to know, if I can. But -"

"If you _can?_ "

"Yes," she snapped. "If I can remember. I've got a pinche bullet in my head," she gestured at the scar on her forehead. "My huevo got a little scrambled, you understand?"

Something flashed in John's eyes - he'd forgotten, and it wasn't as if she'd been very forthcoming with him. Suddenly she felt tired, so tired. Still - something in her couldn't let him win.

"It's not safe to talk here," she said, softening her tone just barely, just enough to hopefully smooth things over. Satisfied that her rifle was loaded, she snapped it closed and hoisted it in her right hand, her arm hanging loose at her side so she'd be ready to fire. Without looking at him, she turned and swung open the heavy vault doors that read "38" in front of her. After a moment, she heard footsteps behind her, growing louder as John caught up.

* * *

She hadn't known Mr. House would be waiting for her there, such as he was. His giant head on the screen as they entered was entirely reasonable, if a little unexpected. When she thought back on it later, of course he was there, and of course his bossy and snide tone had sent a trickle of hot sweat down her spine despite the chill of the vault.

What did surprise her was his reaction to her. Ahead of schedule? She'd been gone for weeks. He didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed that she'd taken over a month to retrieve the chip. He didn't ask how she'd gotten it, didn't ask why Benny had fled the Strip, nothing.

 _Maybe he doesn't know everything he seems to,_ a traitorously sly part of her brain whispered to her. Behind her, far enough away that she couldn't reach out and touch him but close enough that she could feel his presence, John stood silently. She wanted to know what he was thinking, whether he was still was angry, or if this new development had piqued his curiosity enough that he'd stay quiet and see it through.

She didn't turn, though, didn't look at him. She talked to Mr. House, promised to do as he asked. No reason to show her hand before the end of the game, especially since she didn't know if she had straight flush or a pair of twos.

When the sliding door to the lower level opened, she felt John step closer to her. There was the pressure of his arm against her own as they made their way slowly down the stairs, feet landing purposefully on each step, their moves coordinated and almost silent. She felt a small thrill go through her as the back of his hand brushed against the bare skin of her arm, just above her Pip-Boy, but before she could think about it, he had moved slightly away from her, far enough so that they didn't touch.

That was new.

A protectron waited below. She took it out with one clean shot from her trail carbine, but the sound of the weapon discharging sent the rest of them below into a frenzy; she could hear them begin speaking, their metallic voices tripping over each other and beneath that, the heavy crunch of their alloyed feet. Down some stairs, opening one door, then another, then another and finding nothing behind the first two. The third held a long, open room with a low ceiling, so dim she couldn't see the far wall.

Something about it reminded her of Goodsprings, of the cemetery and the blackness closing in over her face. For a moment her knees felt weak but she took another step forward and her gait was steady, even though it felt like her heart was pounding inside her skull. Each beat made her dizzy.

 _Get through this,_ Honey promised herself, _and you can have a hit of Med-X. Get back to Vegas and you can have a drink at the Atomic Wrangler, and a bath, and sleep in a real bed._

There were more protectrons down here - a crowd of them, or maybe a gaggle - at the far end of the room. The two of them hugged the doorway, taking out the two closest robots before she headed down one wall. John took the other, and after a moment of silence she heard the tell-tale clicks of a turret. It was hard to tell how many there were - one? Two? A dozen. No - not that many. Definitely more than one from the distinct hums they let out as they turned.

She lost sight of her partner in the gloom, but found him again a moment later when there were two blasts from his shotgun, one after the other, causing the turret on his side of the room to explode. She saw him briefly in the flare, and then the one closer to her came into view, and she aimed and fired before it could turn to him and treat him like target practice.

The other protectrons began walking forward, their shuffling steps the only sign she had initially of where they were. Gradually she and John shot them down, one by one, until the room was completely silent. When the dust and gunpowder had cleared, she still couldn't see him, but she could finally pick out the rhythm of his breathing; somehow he'd come back around and stood next to her. He wasn't looking at her, though, but at the wall behind them, mouth open as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Are you injured?" He didn't answer her, just shook his head and pointed behind her.

What she'd thought was a wall turned out to be a window, smeared with decades of dust. Honey squinted, looking through the dust, and then she saw it - rows of securitrons, going back so far she couldn't see how many of them there were. She swung her head around to look at the opposite wall, and maybe her eyes had adjusted, or maybe she just knew what to look for, but through those windows there were more.

There was a maldito robot _army_ down here.

Benny had been right, the fucker. Caesar, the NCR - they were dangerous, no doubt. She thought again of the securitrons guarding the gate to the Strip, of what they'd done to that foolish pendejo without a passport who'd tried to charge in. There'd been nothing left of him larger than her pinky. That kind of force, if House used it against the locals -

Mierda - or the _slaves._ Caesar had an army of _slaves_ , conquered people with no will of their own. Her brothers and sisters.

Could her heart stop in her chest? It felt like it did just then.

 _Whatever's down there in that bunker is the key to the city called Vegas,_ she heard Benny say again, clear as if he were standing right next to her. _Do whatever Mr. House woulda wanted you to do. And when you get back to the Strip, you find Yes Man._

The look in his eyes when he'd said it, like it was the most important thing in the world, the only thing that mattered. She hadn't seen it, not an hour ago when she stood above him with the only thought in her head that he had to die, but now she got it. He hadn't killed her - no, he'd _sacrificed_ her.

Her vision swam for a moment, the awful ache behind her eye starting up again, and then everything came back. The securitrons, the Legion above. Mr. House. John.

 _John_ \- he was looking at her now, not at the robots behind the glass, and no matter what he'd been thinking or feeling before they came down here, concern was etched in the wrinkle between his eyes. She wondered briefly if she looked as overwhelmed as she felt, but then his hand landed on her shoulder, warm and strong. His dark gaze was an anchor, and she felt something inside her that had been wobbling grow steady.

"We've got to keep moving." Her voice came out more gruffly than intended, and she reloaded her trail carbine as they continued on through the vault, down and down and down.

* * *

Once she'd inserted the Platinum Chip and upgraded the securitrons as Mr. House and Benny had asked, they'd taken a few minutes to sit in the storage room of the bunker. John lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke as if he'd been holding his breath all day; she wound a bit of rubber around her arm and dosed herself with Med-X. Then she sat, staring at the metal walls and waiting for the pain in her temples to recede.

An _army,_ that's what House had been protecting all this time. She should've known he hadn't done anything to protect the people of Vegas out of the good of his heart; now it became clear that the whole time, all he'd cared about was caps. As if he could spend them - he was nothing but a computer program, right?

No, it wasn't about the caps - it was about the _game,_ Honey realized as her eyes began to focus again. The caps were just a way to keep score. Then again, if he'd really been around for two hundred years, she supposed he'd have to make his own fun.

She was loath to do it, but with the legionaries watching she had to return to Caesar's tent. He was pleased, though still gruff as before. The sun was beginning to set, and Honey couldn't deny the itching in her feet. They'd have to spend the night in Cottonwood Cove again - it would be too late to start back towards Vegas tonight, not with the nightstalkers prowling and the trio of captures slowing them down. And the old man had one more order for her: to execute Mr. House.

So he seemed to think the House was a man. Or maybe he just meant for her to destroy his mainframe. She tried not to focus on the authoritarian way Caesar spoke to her, on the way it made her feel subservient, like the slave she had once been. She tried not to think about the fact that he didn't know what she'd really done down there, about the fact that his destruction lay under his very feet.

She tried not to let the irony of it crease her face into a joyless smile.

Killing House - or disabling him, or unplugging him or it or whatever didn't bother her. Even if she hadn't realized just how dangerous House was, the small nod Benny gave her when Caesar ordered it told her everything she needed to know. The drop in her stomach when he caught her eye told her more, none of it good.

On her way out of the tent, she paused by him again. Her lover, her killer - on his sore knees with that daisy suit soiled and dirty he looked almost tribal again. There was a memory that wanted to surface, gritty and worn and dim, and for a moment she could see him coming in from the desert the first time, all sinewy muscle and tan skin, a network of scars on one arm where he'd taken on a pack of geckos. She could see the way he squinted around the smoke drifting up from the cigarette in his hand, the way he'd looked her up and down. Before the image faded, she felt a charge deep inside her, a tingle that started in her damaged brain and stung down her spine - and then it was gone, the impression faded. Benny looked away from her, back at the man who followed her, and gave a small nod, approval dancing in his eyes.

Honey took the boat back to Cottonwood Cove, and John followed along behind her.

* * *

They left the camp just before dawn. The captures walked with them, but slowly - all three had scrapes and blisters on their bare feet, and had to walk in the dirt beside the paved road because it was too painful to walk on the pavement. Outside the ruins of Camp Searchlight they scavenged some boots, and were able to make the too-large pairs fit with rags stuffed in the toes. John also turned up a single stimpack, which she gave to the mother against her wishes; she'd wanted the boy to have it, for the infected wound in his arm, but Mrs. Weather's fractured ankle would slow them down more, and Honey knew Arcade would be able to help the boy if they got there soon enough.

It took three days of hard walking to make it to Freeside's gates. Twice on the second day, she had to shove the three of them into a ditch as John fired into the rocky hills around the road; the Vipers were smaller in number than they used to be, and desperate. Their little band must have looked especially vulnerable.

Her sleep was disturbed; she spent most of each night on watch, peering into the desert around them, her trigger finger restless. In the mornings when she took her dose of Med-X she found herself using a little more, then a little more than that in the evenings. The syringes began to run low, but at least with the sheen of the chem coating her synapses, everything seemed a little smoother, a little cleaner. They would be at the Mormon Fort soon, she soothed herself, and Arcade would know what to do.

Every time she closed her eyes, she'd see Benny's desperate expression, hear the daring note in his voice as he asked her to continue his work. Even when her eyes were open, there were the securitrons, metal and cold and heartless, stacked dozens deep in the bunker below Caesar's camp. Waiting.

 _Truth is, the game was rigged from the start._

* * *

Julie was happy to meet the Weathers family. Before Honey could say more than a few words, the pretty doctor had whisked the family away to eat and find a place to sleep with little more than a goodbye. Sammy seemed to look over her shoulder as she followed Julie, and Honey threw her a wink despite her own exhaustion. She'd never sleep tonight, though - the Med-X made true sleep nearly impossible and anyway, she was too wired from the journey.

No, what she needed now was a shower and a visit with Arcade. Both were easy to find, although the shower was more of a lukewarm sponge-bath. There was plenty of soap though, and afterwards she pulled out her one set of clean clothes and put them on, feeling human for the first time in weeks. When she came out of the bathroom, John was waiting for her. He stood in the long shadows of one of the fort's towers, legs crossed and back against the wall, picking under his nails with a surprisingly long knife. He didn't address her until she was almost beside him, but she could see from the way his eyes flicked to her boots that he knew she was there.

"So," she finally said to him. "Guess it's about time we settle up."

"Tryin' to get rid of me, sister?" There was something playful about his dark eyes and for just a moment she thought -

No. No, she had too much to do to go there. Instead she let out a laugh that was more of a snort. "Thought you'd appreciate not having to watch my back anymore."

"It's one of the better ones I've been paid to watch out for." The leer he gave her backside wasn't very subtle, as he had to crane his neck to see it. For some reason she thought of the way his hand had brushed her arm in the bunker, and there was that thrill again, down her spine.

 _Oh._

She was too tired to play, but it had been so long since anyone had looked at her like that. That thrill traced its way down her legs, and she couldn't help the smile that flitted across her lips. John didn't miss it, looking up from his nails at just the right moment to catch it; his small hum of satisfaction at catching her made her roll her eyes.

"Look, I'm happy to keep you on," she looked away from him finally, away from those dark eyes that seemed to track her every movement. Instead she began fidgeting in her pack where it sat on the ground a few feet away. Got out the bag of caps she'd allocated for him and stood to look him in the eye again. "But I'd like to be square. I paid you to come with me and back, and you kept your end of the bargain. So - here," she held the small sack out to him, arm extended, and waited for him to take it.

It took him a moment to reach out, but when he did, his fingers brushed against her hand, and there it was again, that spark.

Well, shit, this was getting real complicated. Maybe she'd be better off if he went his own way -

"I think I could keep an eye on your... _back_ for a while longer." This time he winked, and she felt a strange fluttering in her stomach. Innuendo - the last time this had happened.

 _Benny._

No, he was dead. Maybe not in fact but he might as well be, and there was no point in stewing over it; in no time at all, Caesar would expect her to choose an execution for him, and that would be it. She didn't see any way out of it for him.

In the meantime, John was staring at her with that look he had, eyes half-closed and lips curled into a smile on one side. One eyebrow quirked up as if every thought he had was obscene. He slid his knife into the sheath at his hip - slowly, purposefully - and Honey felt a shiver work its way through her.

No. No, no, no. _No._

"Tell you what," she said, turning around to look for Arcade, "why don't you go in and take a shower and I'll buy you a drink after. Show you Freeside."

The other side of his mouth curled up now, changing his expression from a smirk to a full smile.

"That sounds great." He pushed up from the wall with one leg and sauntered past her, just a little too close, and the door to the bathroom closed behind him.

Why was she so hot all of a sudden? She turned towards the center of the courtyard to look for Arcade in one of the tents and instead ran right into the doctor in question. Her shoulder bumped into his chest and they bounced off each other; his hand caught her under the elbow and steadied her. Despite all his protestations that he wasn't a "people person," she caught the glimmer in his eye when he saw who'd run into him.

"Well, hi there, stranger." One thing she could always count on Arcade for - a soft, tender tone to his voice when he saw her. He'd seemed to have a soft spot for her since the first time they'd met, when he'd quoted Cato at her and she'd responded in perfect Latin.

She hadn't known that she knew Latin, of course. Now she knew better - it was a holdover from her slave days, surely. She must have learned it as a child. When she'd explained that on her last visit, he'd told her the bullet to the head had likely triggered latent memories of using Latin, even if she hadn't remembered how to speak it before.

Sometimes listening to his explanations for things gave her a headache, but she was always glad to see him.

"It's been awhile," she said, looking at him carefully and trying not to look like she was. His glasses had a new break in one side - had he been in a fight? She hoped he'd been careful.

"It has," he nodded, and she realized he was inspecting her as carefully as she'd been looking at him. She knew what he'd say a moment before it came out: "Headache still bothering you?"

Typical doctor, asking a question he already knew the answer to just by looking at her.

"I think that's normal when you get shot in the head," she told him with a practiced shrug. It was clear he wasn't buying it, but he took her elbow and began steering her back towards his research tent.

"It might be, but I'm worried about you," he said, pushing her gently into a chair and beginning an exam. His hands were clean and always cold even in the midday heat; now, with the sun dropping below the horizon they were positively frozen and felt amazing as they traced the scar on her temple. "You've been self-medicating again." At least his tone didn't sound condescending; it was clear he understood.

"It's...some days it's the only way to get through the day."

His fingers probed the sunken part of her temple, and she leaned into the cool pressure. Aside from the Med-X, this was the only thing that really helped. It was a relief, just for a few minutes. Then, too soon, it was over. He leaned back and fixed her with a serious face.

"I'll give you more, but -" A sigh from him. "I wish there was a way for you to use...less."

Honey couldn't fight the morose tone her voice took on. "I wish there was too."

Arcade became all business again, shuffling through his supplies. A moment later he returned with syringes of Med-X, a handful of stimpacks, and a dose of Fixer.

"Try this. It should bring your tolerance down. That may help the Med-X work better in smaller doses, at least."

Honey found the corners of her eyes prickling as she accepted the medical supplies. The headache was returning with a vengeance and if she didn't get something in her system soon, she knew she'd be crying and vomiting in the corner of the fort in no time.

"What do I owe you?"

Arcade waved a hand at her as he sat back down. "Nothing right now. Getting the Garretts' help with making our supplies was help enough."

"No, please -"

"No buts," he chided her, a laugh behind his stern words. She hung her head a little and set the collection of needles on his desk, rifling through it for a dose of Med-X. Arcade watched her carefully as she sterilized her elbow and tightened a strap around her arm, then injected herself with about half a dose of what had been working for her. At his raised eyebrow, she gave herself the rest of the dose and returned the empty syringe to him.

He was too good at his job, Honey thought.

As the medication worked its way through her, she could feel her body loosen up around her. Her back relaxed into the chair and she ran a hand through her freshly-washed hair.

"I saw Benny." Why did she say that? She knew how Arcade felt about him - about the same way she should, given he tried to kill her.

 _That was before,_ she thought. Before _I knew what's waiting._

Arcade's face was impossible to read. One of his eyebrows looked like it wanted to arch at her, but instead he impassively asked, "Did you at least kill him this time?"

A hot blush spread across Honey's cheeks and down her neck before she could stop herself. "I -"

"Oh jeez," Arcade made as if to get up, and her hand shot out before she could stop herself, pushing him in the chest so he slid back into his seat. "Well, this ought to be good," he grumbled, but she got the impression he was curious.

"He told me what he was up to. It's...it's big." Did she dare tell him how big?

This time Arcade's eyebrow really did go up; he gave her a skeptical look that made the blush creep over her again, despite the fact that she wasn't usually so easily cowed. "Big enough that it was worth trying to kill you?"

"I don't think he killed me -"

"Oh, right, because you're still alive," he shot back.

"No - because he wasn't killing me. He...he sacrificed me." How else could she put it? She'd spent the whole trip back trying to figure out how to say it, trying to attach words to it, in English and Spanish and Latin, and this was all she could come up with.

"Go on." His face made it clear he didn't want her to, but she took him at his word and did.

"Mr. House -" she paused, looked out the door of the tent and saw no one. Lowered her voice anyway. "He's building an army. An army of securitrons."

This did stop him. For a moment, Arcade worked his jaw up and down and she wondered if a fly might wander in there. He finally closed it with an audible snap, and, with Med-X coursing through her, Honey let out half a laugh.

 _Truth is, the game was rigged from the start._

"That...that doesn't sound good." What an understatement.

"So you see why I have to finish what he started."

They sat silently for a few moments. It was clear Arcade was trying to formulate what to say.

"We gonna get that drink?" John popped around the corner and for a moment, Honey found herself at a loss. Freshly washed and no longer stinking like a brahmin corpse left in the sun, his dark hair curling over his forehead, she felt that familiar tingle trace its way down her back.

 _Fuck._

'"Well, hello." The tone in Arcade's voice wasn't one she'd ever heard before. It was a purr, a masculine rumble that made her feel suddenly small and insignificant. And did she imagine it, or did John look Arcade over with eyes as soft as a caress?

"I don't think I've met you," came John's response, as teasing and flirtatious as he'd been with her just a half-hour before.

 _That's interesting,_ she thought.

She didn't have time to think about it though as the two of them shook hands, exchanged names, and then John turned to her. Arcade kept looking at him, though, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. Honey bit the inside of her cheek to force the smile off her face. It was cute, seeing him so suddenly smitten; she didn't think he'd ever been this friendly to anyone at first glance before.

"We're going to head to the Wrangler," she said, more to Arcade than to John, who wouldn't know what that meant anyway. Arcade's face fell at that, and he murmured something about needing to finish something up. With a shrug, she started through the door of the tent, only to stop as Arcade grabbed her shoulder and pressed her supplies into her arms.

"Have fun." The look on his face was something she'd never thought to see before, she thought dazedly as she found her pack and left the fort, arm somehow in arm with John.


	9. Make Me Forget My Sorrow

Way Back Home: Make Me Forget My Sorrow

Notes: Yes, I know you can't buy Party Time Mentats from the Garretts. Shush shush. ;)

Also: The poem fragments included in this chapter are from La United Fruit Co, and If You Forget Me, both written by Pablo Neruda. I've included just the English translation but you can Google all his work in wonderful English translations and the original Spanish. If you haven't read anything of his before, do yourself a favor and fix that.

An explicit version of this chapter is available on Ao3.

* * *

"The Wrangler" Honey had mentioned turned out to be The Atomic Wrangler, a relic of the old world that was one part nightclub and one part casino, held together with a thick coat of grime. John had never seen anything like it; it was shabby but still more sophisticated than The Third Rail. He wondered if the Concord Speakeasy had been like this, before the war, with the dim lighting and the terrible comedian onstage.

The woman behind the bar wore a no-nonsense hairdo and a grim expression that lit up when she saw Honey stroll in. She gave John a cursory look and half a smile before turning back to the woman before her, and was he imagining the glint in her eye as she greeted the courier?

Honey was living up to her name now, just as she had in the Legion camps; her voice was caramel silk, soft and satiny and lower-pitched than when she'd spoken to the legionaries.

"Francine, meet John," she said, sliding onto a barstool so he could step forward and say hello. "Francine here runs this place with her brother."

"Nice to meet you," Francine's hand was firm in his own despite the awkwardness of shaking over the bar. "We got booze, we got beer, we got chems. We're down to just a couple escorts, and they're both busy right now but if you want to wait they'll be free later."

It took him a moment to realize what she meant, and when he did, he couldn't stop himself from chuckling, despite the image of Nicole that flashed through his head. Sad, scared Nicole, with Vic pinching her ass - but no. She was gone now, she'd made her own decision to take off - _and fuck me in the process,_ he thought - and that was all he'd really wanted for her.

Francine and Honey were staring at him now and John realized he must have spaced, thinking about that foolish girl.

"I guess we'll see where the night takes me," he said as grandly as he could, and the eager smile returned to Francine's face. "For now I'm more interested in something to drink and some Mentats, if you've got 'em."

"Do I?" Francine disappeared behind the counter then popped back up a moment later like an overenthusiastic jack-in-the-box. "I got regular and some Khans just brought a shipment of Party Time flavor. Which do you want?"

He'd never heard of Party Time or whatever a Khan was, but this was a night out, so he got a box of each and a couple inhalers of Jet. Though he was still using the Med-X, John had been taking smaller doses every few hours, and figured he'd be clear to go cold-turkey in no time. Might as well spend some of his few caps on what he really wanted. He slid the lid of the Party Time Mentats open and swallowed two while Honey ordered a bottle of whiskey with two glasses - "Not the shit you tried to give me last time, the _good_ stuff," she told Francine - and a couple cans of purified water.

The Mentats began working in no time, and as the high rolled through his head, he drifted away from the bar to a table near the far door. He floated into a chair, his eyes fixed on the ghoul standing before him, microphone in one withered hand.

"Ghoul walks into a bar," he said, voice creaking and rattling. "Bartender says, 'We don't serve ghouls here.' Ghoul says, 'That's fine. Is the human fresh?'"

The laugh that shot out of John was so loud it surprised everyone in the bar - even the casino behind him quieted a little, and Honey stopped in her tracks with a bemused smile on her approach to the table. The comic turned, fixed him with a glare, and stalked back to John's side of the stage, microphone cable trailing behind him like a tail.

"You think something's _funny?_ " He sounded offended, and that made John laugh even harder.

"Isn't that the point'a your routine?"

The ghoul frowned. "Geez, we got a heckler, eh? Somebody told me you were bright; I wasn't sure if he meant smart or radioactive."

John couldn't stop laughing; it bubbled out of him like Abraxo in a washtub, one chuckle after another, and he found himself gasping for breath as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. He felt the table shift as Honey slid into the seat next to him, and the faint clinking of glassware as she set it down. She was staring at him, he knew it without looking up, but the whole thing was just suddenly so damn funny -

Rescue a girl, she fucks you over. End up in the middle of the desert about to be shot or left for dead and get hired by some babe with more personalities than brains. Almost get killed by some yahoos in football gear who think they're in ancient Rome.

It'd been a weird few months, no doubt about it.

* * *

They listened to the rest of the set, some of it funny, and Honey poured him a few fingers' worth of whiskey. He lit a cigarette for her, and when the comedian had finally stopped abusing everyone who walked in the door and the radio was turned up, John finally decided to ask her. Her eyes were relaxed, half-closed and the fringe of her dark lashes created a feathered shadow on her upper cheeks. Even though he'd only known her a week, John thought he'd never seen her so calm.

"So what's your deal with those fuckers across the river?"

He watched as something inside of her shifted; she straightened a little, her shoulders tensed. He felt an immediate pang of regret, especially since he had an idea of the answer. He'd wanted to hear it from her, but now as he watched her fidget with her glass of whiskey that seemed cruel.

He could go easier on her. He _should_ go easier on her.

"That was you, once, wasn't it?" Honey flicked her bright eyes back up at him again, all pretense of serenity gone. He held her gaze for a moment, then looked down at the scarred tabletop, at the overlapping water-rings bleached into the centuries-old wood. "The people in the pen. The captures."

She gave a laugh that wasn't. "Close," she said, so softly that he almost couldn't hear her. "My mother was a slave. A _breeding_ slave."

John looked up from the table at her face. She wasn't looking at him but instead at her glass; then she picked it up and downed all three fingers of whiskey with a grimace. Could he see the imprint of a collar across her slim throat? Probably just his imagination.

"She helped me escape when I was little. Six, maybe seven years old," she continued, one hand rubbing her scarred temple. Through the comfortable haze of chems and whiskey and cigarette smoke, John became aware of an overwrought piano and the calm voice of Nat King Cole from the speakers.

 _Love me as though there were no tomorrow._

 _Take me out of this world tonight._

"What happened next?" He lifted the bottle and filled her glass with a few more inches of amber liquid. Honey looked up at him, a thank you in her eyes, and took a gulp before continuing. Whoever she'd been minutes ago, she was someone timid now, someone scared, and he found he was angry at himself for doing this to her.

"I don't remember," she said simply. "At some point I made it to the Strip for a while. I think I did a lot of bad things; I know I hurt a lot of people. Somehow I met Benny and I think -" She inhaled sharply and then continued. "I loved him. That _asshole._ "

John's cigarette had gone out at some point. He didn't know when. It was almost down to the filter, so he tossed it into the ashtray (and missed, but what the hell, who cares) and lit a new one. The smoke was harsh but grounding.

"He's the one that shot you."

A nod from Honey. "Yes. But - he did it for a good reason."

Well, if that wasn't one of the most batshit things John had ever heard. It was like keeping a pet deathclaw or calling a mirelurk cute. It just didn't compute.

"He's fighting to take Vegas back for the people who live here." The tone in her voice had changed. "I...should be a part of that. Right?" Her eyes were locked on him, big and glittering and hopeful, although he couldn't tell if she was hoping he'd give her permission to fuck off somewhere else and leave Vegas to its own devices, or if she wanted to be pushed to save the city.

He couldn't figure it out. Caesar and his slaves and his imperious tone had been enough, but then there was the guy on the talking screen. He'd certainly seemed like an asshole, a real Diamond City type, with his pomaded hair and big words. The expression frozen on his face had reminded him of Martin, of his toothy grin as the ghouls fled the city.

Shit. Diamond City. He hadn't considered what might be going on back east in days, or maybe weeks. Myrtle and her cat. Martin's grimace that masqueraded as a smile. Vic's bloody, grasping hands.

"So you wanna take out the bad guys?" he said, taking a long drag of his cigarette and considering her through the smoke. Her lips flirted with a smile then gave in, and wasn't it terrible and lovely, with those brilliant blue eyes looking back at him?

"That was Benny's plan, I guess," she took another sip, and she cast her eyes down, away from him. Suddenly he was very aware of the heat of the room and the smell of her, like soap and gunpowder and something light and fresh, like the cactus she'd shown him how to eat the day before.

"He seemed like kind of a bad guy."

"Sí. He is." The smile on her face was wistful. John took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

"But not as bad as the other bad guys."

"Probably not."

"Well, what do _you_ want?"

Honey laughed. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before."

John blew a plume of smoke out, watched it wend its way towards the ceiling. These Mentats were strong but they didn't last long. He slid a couple out of the dented tin box and, when she reached her hand out, handed them over to her. Took a couple more out and swallowed them, washing them down with a sip of purified water.

"Isn't it time you ask yourself that?"

Was it just him, or had her cheeks turned pink? No - she definitely had a blush creeping up her neck and into the tanned skin of her face. He kind of liked it. It was pretty.

No, not kind of - he definitely liked it.

"Right now I think I'd like to play some blackjack," she said, draining her glass and standing. "Come on." She looped an arm in his, pulling him to standing, and he let his body brush up against hers as he went, trying to both memorize the way her curves felt against him and pretend it wasn't happening, and followed her through the door to the gaming floor.

* * *

Luck was a weird thing. So many times in her life, it seemed like the whole world had conspired against her. So many people managed to die and stay dead, for example. Although some people might consider getting back up again a good thing. Fancy that.

She still wasn't sure how she felt about it, whether this was a sign of good fortune or the opposite. It would be nice to rest, to dream, to feel a relief from the pain in her head where the bullet sat, snuglike an egg in a nest of gray brain matter and fragments of bone. Sometimes she imagined she could feel it sitting there, hot gunpowder and cold metal burning into her tissue. Doc Mitchell had told her that wasn't likely, but still - the image remained, and so did the sensation.

As fortune should have it, this was one of the few times she _didn't_ feel this way. With Med-X and Mentats and whiskey coursing through her body and a fat stack of chips on the table before her, she felt lighter than she had since she was pulled from her grave. She tried to focus on the cards before her - two aces, one a spade and the other a diamond - and decide whether she wanted to call or gamble on a split. The dealer had the ten of hearts, which meant she would be hard to beat. The dirt farmer at the other end of the table, drunk on gin and wielding nothing but a sorry rumpled two and a six, was no threat.

"So what's an ace worth?" John's breath was hot against the delicate skin of her neck, his voice gruff and enticing in her ear. He leaned against the back of her chair, his face pressed against her cheek so he could murmur in her ear and learn the game. The dealer, a pale young woman with perfect sandy hair and sultry red lips, had been eyeing him from the moment they walked in. John had given her a wink when they came to the table, and Honey felt a pang of irritation that their coy exchanges bothered her.

"An ace can be either one point or eleven," she whispered back to him. "So right now we've got twenty-two - which is bad - or just two. The goal is to beat the dealer without going over twenty-one points. Because we have a pair we can split them." Honey took a sip of the whiskey he'd poured her when she sat down. She kept her eyes forward, on the stained green felt of the gaming table, despite the fact that she could feel him looking at her.

"So why not stand on the cards you have now?" A good question. She tried not to think about the way the coarse scruff on his cheek felt against hers.

Honey rolled her neck a little, trying to relieve the tension shooting from it down her shoulders. She thought she caught the ghost of a smile on John's face as she did so and tried to ignore the shiver that went through her.

"If I split them, I have two chances to win," she said, and then did so, tapping each ace. The swaying stack of red and blue chips taunted her, as did the derogatory smirk of the dealer. "I only get one card per ace now," Honey whispered back to John as the dealer pulled the first card from the top of the deck, her tight, Easter-pink dress rustling softly.

"So you're really taking a chance here." Was it her imagination, or did his lips just touch her ear as he spoke?

"I am."

Honey held her breath as the first card landed on the ace of spades - a ten of clubs. A perfect score.

The dealer scowled and flipped over the second card to reveal the queen of hearts as it landed on the ace of diamonds.

"No way," the dealer breathed out. "Two blackjacks...how?" She looked suspiciously at her deck, and Honey could feel John's smile against her cheek.

"Hold on," she said softly, pressing her hand against his arm before he could get too excited and rake all the chips back to their pile. "She still has to look at her hold card to see if she matches."

As she spoke, the dealer reached down, her fingers white over the dark red pattern of the back of the playing card - or was that blood? - and flipped it.

The eight of spades faced them. John took in a sharp breath, and his chest pressed against her shoulder. That shiver worked its way down her spine again. This close she could smell him - tobacco and whiskey and something metallic, like a knife stained with blood. It shouldn't have been intoxicating, but it was. For a moment she thought again of the way he'd slid his knife into its sheath, back at the fort, and then, as her skin broke out in goosepimples, she wished she hadn't.

The dealer's scowl deepened, as if she took the house losing personally. She slammed the winning chips on the table, shoving them at Honey and John, and then set the "table closed" sign on it and marched away.

As she sashayed off, the drunk at the other end of the table fell off his stool in a pile onto the floor. Honey caught John's eye and then they were both gone in a gale of giggling, which only got worse when one of the security guards came over to escort the guy back to his room.

"Looks like I pissed off your girlfriend," Honey said, swiveling in her seat and snatching the cigarette John held to his lips before he could catch her. The look he gave her made a muscle in her thigh twitch.

 _Down girl,_ she thought, taking a slow drag off his cigarette and trying to forget the way he watched her. She knew that look; Benny had always gotten that look just before he'd drag her away, pulling at her belt or the laces on her armor. _There's no way he's interested in this._ The scar on her temple burned hot, bright like a brand. This guy might be tough back where he came from, but there's no way he's Mojave tough - if he saw the scars on half her body, he'd run.

"That girl?" John had another cigarette out already, and he flipped his lighter open and closed the same way the Chairmen did. "Not my type."

 _Oh, fuck. Oh, no. Oh, mierda._

"And...what is your type, John?" When did her voice get so coy? When did she tilt her head at the angle she used to entice men into doing what she wanted?

And what did she want, anyway?

The smile on his face was dark, the turn of his lips a promise she wasn't sure he meant to make, even as she felt one of his hands land on her knee. His grip was gentle but she could feel the strength in it as his thumb worked its way up the tender skin of her inner thigh, and he shifted his body forward, between her slightly parted knees.

"Not little girls, like that one," his eyes were on hers, and it came to Honey that she was mesmerized. "I prefer to be with people who...know what they're getting into with me."

She wouldn't be able to keep up a pretense of not knowing what was happening much longer. _Time to decide, Honey. Es la hora de la verdad._

Honey took a drag of the cigarette she'd stolen from him and blew the smoke out sideways, away from his face. Tried to focus on anything but the fire in her thigh where his hand rested like a brand.

 _It's been so long -_

Benny didn't count. What had happened between them when she found him at The Tops had been a vestige of her old life. She still didn't understand what she felt about him, or if she wanted to do what he'd asked of her, and wouldn't it all mean going back to her old life, to the person she was before she died? The person who terrified her, even if Honey couldn't entirely remember her.

If she went back to Mercedes, would Honey still exist?

"And what would someone get with you?" How did her voice stay so steady?

John's wicked smile grew, reached the creases in the corners of his eyes. Instead of words, his hand worked its way farther up her thigh, to the seam in her pants, where it brushed against the sensitive nub inside; Honey's breath hitched and she closed her eyes for a moment as she tried to gather her thoughts.

When she opened them, John's mouth was next to her ear, and the voice he spoke in was different from what she was used to - it was a feral growl, nearly deep as a ghoul's voice, and it sent a pulse down her spine straight to the teasing hand between her legs.

"What do you say we take this somewhere less...public?" Honey turned her head - towards his face, not away - and his lips brushed against her cheek before he pulled back, allowing her to swivel around in her seat and collect their chips. She shoveled them into her bag carelessly - they could cash out later, or in the morning, and she got up and strode for the stairs.

She was halfway over to the stairwell when she realized he wasn't right behind her. She turned back, flipping her hair over one shoulder in the way men always liked, and crooked one finger towards him. The speed with which he raced over to her was new and endearing; the unspoken promise in his eyes was more temptation than she could handle.

* * *

Honey had rented a room from the Garretts because she wanted a real bed and not a sleeping bag or worn mattress like the Followers would offer. It was less opulent than the Penthouse at the Lucky 38, but had the benefit of not worrying about being forced to speak with Mr. House.

 _I won't have to kill him if I never go back there._

She wasn't going to think about that now, though - no, she was going to think about the way John had followed her in, his cigarette lost somewhere in the trek upstairs. She was going to think about how he slid the lock on the door shut so purposefully, and the way he took a long swig from the whiskey bottle - they'd abandoned the glasses downstairs - and stared at her.

His gaze was hungry, but not predatory. He wanted her but this would be no Legion ravaging, meant to strip her down to nothing. He might lust for her, but she could tell - how? She didn't know - that he wouldn't waste her, as Benny had. There would still be something left of her tomorrow.

 _What do you want, Honey?_ His voice came back to her.

 _I want this. At least for tonight. Quiero John._

So Honey walked back to him, took the whiskey bottle, and drank until the fire burned in her belly. She set it atop a small bookshelf and when she turned back to him, John was already so close his fingers tangled in her hair, pale and rosy against the black strands. His hand worked its way up her neck, the pressure of it ticklish, and then he was pulling her face towards his, her lips against his mouth.

He wasn't rough like some men she'd been with, but he wasn't gentle, either. There was nothing timid about the way he kissed her, his lips opening against her to taunt her with his tongue and a soft nip on her lower lip. Her hands made their way to his shirt collar, and she began unbuttoning it hastily, the malignant part of her brain warning her that this was a dream or a mistake, that he was going to push her away and laugh in her ugly scarred face.

But he didn't laugh, and he didn't push her away; rather he dropped his hand from the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, and fumbled open the buckle on her right shoulder that held her chestpiece on. With that open, his left hand slid along her shoulder, pushing the heavy reinforced leather off her other shoulder to the floor. His lips made their way from hers down her neck to her ear, where his tongue played a delicate game with her earlobe before he paused to suck at the sensitive skin at the junction of her ear and neck.

She had his shirt open now, and wasn't disappointed. Maybe they did make them softer back east, where he came from, but his chest and neck put together had fewer scars than her left calf. Maybe they didn't have deathclaws there, or maybe the people helped each other out more.

There wasn't time to ask about it, though, because he was working her pants open, his fingers nimble and practiced as he slipped the button open and worked the zipper down. His hands were insistent as they shoved inside her waistband and forced the pants to her ankles, effectively hobbling her.

"Wait -" she wasn't sure what she wanted him to wait for, but it didn't matter; by the time she got the word out, he'd already shoved her back onto the bed, where she bounced on the mattress a moment and realized just how drunk she was. He knelt in front of her, agile fingers unlacing first her left boot and then her right and pulling them off one by one. He followed that with her socks - at the same time - and her pants. He left them all in a sloppy pile on the floor behind him as he placed a kiss on the inside of her knee.

Honey let out a gasp, unable to stop herself.

 _So, so long._

A memory surfaced of Benny, on his knees before her much like John was now, only she'd had one foot slung over his shoulder and the look he'd been giving her was laced with resentment in the lust. She looked down at John now, and there was none of that; his mouth left a small red mark on her inner thigh before he laid his lips against the thin fabric of her panties. Damp before, she found herself suddenly soaking and unable to focus, not with the rough hair of his days-old beard nuzzling her. Honey collapsed into the pillows behind her as John shoved the pink fabric aside and moved his mouth against her, his hands gently massaging her thighs.

* * *

"... and on the sleeping dead,  
on the restless heroes  
who'd conquered greatness,  
liberty and flags,  
it founded a comic opera:  
it alienated free wills,  
gave crowns of Caesar as gifts,  
unsheathed jealousy, attracted  
the dictatorship of the flies -"

"A little on the nose, isn't it?" John interrupted her and Honey lowered the battered paperback book to smile at him. He'd never seen her smile like this before, all white teeth and relaxed brows, her eyes bright under lazy dark lashes as she looked down at his. He rested between her legs, his head on her stomach, one arm still wrapped around her leg, his fingers tracing a pattern on her bare knee. He let his thumb guide his hand farther down the outside of her thigh, over a thick white scar that must have come from a thick blade - a machete? - then further down to squeeze the soft pad of her hip.

She shifted a little into his hand and he felt a quiver inside himself, then a tightening below.

"Would you prefer something else?" The brow on the uninjured side of her face arched delicately, temptingly, and he took his hand away, turning all the way over so he face her belly, casually moving the hem of her shirt higher so he could see the soft skin there.

When he looked up again, her face was flushed and she was biting her lip, but had flipped through the book to find a different poem.

" I want you to know  
one thing," she began.

He pressed his lips to her stomach, teasing out a soft moan. Yes, she was ready for him already; he could feel it in the way she shifted her hip so his shoulder bumped against the tender spot of her clit.

"You know how this is:  
if I look  
at the crystal moon, at the red branch  
of the slow autumn at my window," her voice grew softer, but no less sweet or steady.

John traced a hand up under her shirt to caress one breast, his fingers playing aimlessly with her nipple as she spoke. He gave it a light squeeze and she paused to gasp. He laid his hand flat across it, taunting her with a feather-light touch. He watched her face, saw her eyes unfocus for a moment before she returned to her recitation.

"If I touch -"

"If I touch?" He repeated, smiling at the scent of her still on his face, and his opposite hand replaced his shoulder as he slid partway up the length of her body. He sketched a circle around where he knew she wanted his fingers, and she arched her back towards him, licking her lips before she continued.

"If I touch," she repeated,  
"near the fire  
the impalpable ash  
or the wrinkled body of the log,  
everything carries me to you," her voice gave out again.

* * *

He crashed back down onto the bed next to her, spent, exhausted and ready for sleep. His eyes fluttered closed before he could think about it, and he heard her light a cigarette beside him. There was the distinctive sound of a lighter and a person sucking in air and smoke, and then the light clicking shut. The bed moved a little as she reached down for her book, and he turned, snuggling up next to her. Her arm, warm and brown, settled across him, and as he drifted off, it was to the sound of her reading again.

"If suddenly  
you forget me  
do not look for me,  
for I shall already have forgotten you."


	10. Without a Dream in My Heart

Way Back Home: Without a Dream in My Heart

Notes: Things are going to get a little surreal here. Give it a shot.

* * *

 _Just get upstairs,_ Honey thought to herself. The elevator, fast by current standards, must have been remarkably slow in the old world. It creaked up the shaft slowly, what felt like inches at a time. She tried to take stock of her injuries - her right eye, the one inside her damaged temple, was fading in and out and her opposite arm might well be broken. How did that happen?

Oh yeah - _Jane._ She'd gone flying over the couch to avoid the missile the securitron had aimed at her, and had just barely made it out of the way in time.

Perhaps upgrading the securitrons had been a mistake, she thought, dazedly, leaning against the tarnished mirrored wall of the elevator and swaying, trying to stay upright. Everything in the Penthouse had gone fine until she'd tried to get into the back room, plinking away at the terminal. Suddenly all the things she'd run to Zion to escape had happened at once; all the securitrons had turned hostile, with Mr. House's voice hollering at them to "finish" her. She'd dropped to the floor, tossing grenades blindly around the stairwell, and - when they thought they'd cornered her - kept moving, kept ducking behind and under and around things.

By the time she'd made it through the door she'd been one giant bruise on her left side, with the probably-broken arm and a substantial burn on her side, under her armor, and cursing John for all his talk about "when people need helping we help 'em."

"Fuck you, John," she mumbled now, barely able to hear her own voice over the creaking of the elevator. Her head rolled loosely on her neck, as if it was held on with nothing but a pin and a hope.

Inside the next room had been two more of the monsters, and it had taken her three mines, two grenades, and more ammo than she cared to consider to take them down. She'd thought about fleeing then - she was in no shape to fight any more robots, with the angry pain in the side of her head weeping blood into her eye and her vision blinking in and out - but that had been it.

Mr. House - the elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors swung open smoothly.

"That you, Honey?" Cass called from the kitchen, her voice a little irritated. A happy yip from Rex and the sound of feet headed her way, and then the plush carpet rising to meet her. She landed with a hard thump that made her left side cry out, though she couldn't tell if she made any other noise as she sank into the soft dark fibers.

 _Side bets are for losers, baby. I'm playing to win._

"You're a fucking chingón, Benny." Had she spoken out loud? Did she mean to?

"What the fuck happened to you?" Cass's annoyance was last thing she heard before blackness overtook her.

* * *

John had no idea how long he'd been asleep when he awoke to discover Honey was gone. At first he didn't think much of it - the bed was warm and he was truly exhausted after so many days of non-stop travel, so he rolled over, buried his face in a pillow that smelled of sex and whiskey and cigarette smoke and fell asleep again for an hour or maybe a day.

He woke again to a rumbling stomach that would not be calmed. He needed to eat and soon, so he sat up, looking about the room for his discarded clothes. On the dresser by the door sat a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey and a pack of smokes, so he fired one up as he pulled on his pants. The socks were too disgusting - something had spilled on them and he wasn't sure what - so he shoved them into the wastebasket and fumbled through his pack for a clean pair. He shoved his feet first into the socks, then the boots, as he closed one eye against the smoke that drifted up from the cigarette jammed in his lips.

The room was a mess - blankets all over the place, sheets ripped half off the mattress, a bottle knocked onto the floor, one ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. He grinned a little to himself as he popped a couple Mentats in his mouth - the regular kind, thank you - and began buttoning his shirt.

That Honey...she was a hell of a good time. He hadn't been fucked like that in a while. The memory of her ass in his hands, her mouth on his chest - he shivered.

Where was she, anyway?

It was then that he realized all her stuff was gone - her pack, her tattered book of poems in some language he'd never heard of before - everything but a crumbled pair of pink panties with a hole near the elastic, which he balled up and stuffed into his own pack. The scent of her drifted up as he did so and he paused for a moment, sniffing the air, before he pushed them to the bottom.

He looked around the room again, trying to see if there was a clue left about where she'd gone, and that was when he noticed a note scrawled on the bedside table.

With a last drag of his cigarette, he picked up the ripped scrap of paper and read:

 _John -_

 _There's some things I need to take care of on the Strip. Without a passport or 2000 caps, I can't get you in, so I've gone alone._

 _I should be back later tonight, or maybe tomorrow. The room is paid for, so hang around if you want, or maybe see if the Garretts have any side jobs you're interested in._

 _Check the drawer below for your share of our winnings._

 _Don't worry - I'll be back for you._

 _Honey._

The drawer was indeed full of chips, more than he probably deserved. Sweet of her. He smiled as he shoved the note in his pocket. May as well head downstairs and see what the Garretts were serving up for breakfast.

Breakfast was an omelet of dubious origin, but it was tasty and hot and came with a watery beer that John drank gratefully. Coming off the Med-X was easier with a cool drink, and what he'd realized coming down the stairs was that he did have a hangover, no matter what he'd thought at first.

Francine Garrett was gone, but a man who looked enough like her to be her twin stood behind the counter in her place. John peered at the man over the top of the sunglasses he'd put on in self-defense, and - when the omelet finally promised to cooperate and stay down - decided to ask.

"So my, uh, boss, Honey, said you might have some work for me," he said, taking another sip of his beer.

Garrett raised a brow at that. "She's a fine piece," he replied, wiping the inside of a spotted glass with a worryingly grimy rag. "You're a lucky guy, gettin' to follow her around."

John smiled a little. "No doubt." He pushed away his plate and watched as Garrett took it back to the kitchen. Fired up another smoke; the Mentats were hitting him now and he felt calm, smart even. Nice feeling. Smooth.

"Heard you might have some work you need done," he began again when Garrett came back. The smile Garrett gave him had an edge to it that he liked. Yep, the guy did. Might be dangerous, too. John felt his heart beat just a little faster. He wouldn't mind shooting something; it had been a while.

"We've got the basics covered," Garrett started, wiping a new glass with a slightly less-disturbingly dirty rag. "But now that you mention it...we have had _unusual_ requests from some of our wealthier customers."

So he was going to be a pimp now?

"I assume this is all on a voluntary basis," John replied, taking another drag off his cigarette. "I won't do it if this is a grab and trap job."

Garrett had grace enough to look horrified by the suggestion. "Of course not. We pay all our escorts well, and you'll get a finder's fee if you can match the customers' _proclivities._ "

They spent the next few minutes hashing out the details - a cowboy ghoul, which didn't seem like it'd be too hard to find, a smooth-talker for the "boyfriend experience," and a sexbot that was clearly for Garrett himself, given how much time the man wasted talking about how "disgusting" robot fetishists were (the length of two more cigarettes and half of another beer). They'd settled on no less than a hundred caps per prostitute, then John paid his bill and walked out into the city.

Freeside by day was only slightly less disturbing than Freeside by night. It reminded him a little of the Fens, with half-collapsed buildings everywhere and blind alleys that screamed "ambush waiting." He could hear voices, and the sound of glass breaking and footsteps, but the streets were curiously empty.

Worse - it felt like the buildings had eyes. As if something or someone was watching him.

But the gates promised a modicum of safety - no ferals, no vermin, no deathclaws, no super mutants. It'd be hard for any of those things to make it over the wall surrounding the city, and so he walked with his shotgun holstered and knife stuffed in his boot - only to discover how stupid that was when turned a corner and a pistol turned up under his nose.

The guy who held it was even smaller than him, a wiry man in a grimy t-shirt and no shoes, and if he hadn't been trying to rob him, John would've felt bad for him.

"Gimme all your caps," string bean said, and John laughed. He didn't mean to, but it was funny, this guy thinkin' he could come in and take what didn't belong to him. He put his hands up with a chuckle, reached into the chestpiece of his armor as if going for the bag of caps stashed there, and then his backup knife was buried in the boy's throat before he could react.

Coulda felt bad for him, but didn't. Kid didn't have to resort to robbery.

* * *

"Not gonna lie, this one don't seem quite above board," Nash said, holding out the clipboard for her to sign. Mercedes scratched under her braid; whatever was tangled up in her hair was gonna give her a rash if she wasn't careful. Maybe when she hit the Strip she could look up Benny, get a shower and a hot meal and a tumble. Wouldn't be the first time. The thought made her smile.

"What's so weird about it?" The clipboard was in her hands, and she scrawled her name where Nash had shown her. Reading and writing had come late, at the little schoolhouse in New Canaan. Mama had said that's where her Pa came from, but no one there knew anyone named Malpais and so she'd lived with whoever had a little extra week-by-week. Scrappin' came natural to her after so many years of scrounging.

"Couldn't rightly say," Nash told her, taking a puff of a cigarette and handing her the package. It was small, no larger than a pack of cigarettes, a heavy circle wrapped in dirty brown cloth and twine. Fairly unremarkable. "Maybe it was the robot, or maybe the fact that there're seven of ya goin' out there."

She wasn't worried, though - she had her gun and her machete, and she'd spent enough time in the Mojave that she figured the shortcut up through Sloan would be a piece of cake. Mercedes shoved the package in her pocket and turned towards the door, pulling her sun hat on. Nash was still watching her as she tied the laces under her chin, so she shot him a wink and that smile men loved so much, the one that always made Benny shove her up against a wall, yanking on her braid and shoving his hand down her pants.

 _You're pretty, baby, I'll give you that,_ he'd told her last time she'd stopped by. _But I think I like you better with your mouth busy._ Then he's given her something to do with it. Her skin prickled at the thought of it, despite the sweltering heat inside the Express office.

Yeah, a stop at the Tops would be just the thing.

"I'll be fine, abuelo," she told her boss, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the nickname. "Ain't no desert going to eat me up." But she was already gone, determined to head up I-15 through Goodsprings and Sloan before hitting the Strip.

Outside, Honey waited, watched herself as Mercedes walked across the Primm bridge and up the road. She wanted to shout, to throw a rock at herself, to stop that pinche girl from doing what she was about to do, but the woman she'd been was already long-gone up the highway, half-running.

 _Truth is, the game was rigged from the start._

* * *

His first stop was the Old Mormon Fort. Thought he'd check in on Arcade, see if the folks there needed anything while he was out looking for something to do, but Arcade was gone.

"Apparently there was an emergency at the Lucky 38," the brusque young woman with the mohawk told him. Something about it pinged for him, but he couldn't connect the dots, and anyway, she had a request that he go visit some store up the road looking for stimpacks, Med-X, RadAway, and stuff like that. Medical chems, he thought to himself. Made sense here, with all the people convalescing.

He'd been ready to head to Mick and Ralph's when he stopped short at the gate. Turned around and couldn't believe his eyes - there before him, standing just behind him, was a ghoul in a cowboy hat.

Too fucking good to be true, he thought as he sauntered over.

It didn't take long for Beatrix, as she introduced herself, to admit that working for the Followers was dull as dogshit (but that was no surprise, he thought, glancing around the small fort. There might be some people willing to go up against a bunch of do-gooders like them, but not many).

"They won't let me kick back and slog a brew at the end of the day," Beatrix told him, wistfully, and at that moment John knew he could convince her. She had just the right note of wanting in her tone that told him her life was boring enough she'd do almost anything to get out.

Probably wouldn't hurt her to know someone'd be laying hands on her again, either. Daisy'd told him once how so many ghouls had a hard time finding anyone to fuck, what with the skin sloughing and bald heads. "We're not exactly a hot commodity, sweetheart," she'd told him, but he'd given her a kiss anyway, and found himself turned on by the tightness of her jaw.

Beatrix was probably close to the same age, he reflected as he watched her talk. Had the same way of carrying herself, like she'd been around before the bombs. Those pre-war ghouls - the ones that hadn't gone feral - all seemed to have it.

"I bet you've seen a lot over the years, huh?" She'd followed him over to the gate and the two of them slipped through it now to stand in the street outside. He offered her a cigarette and she took it with a happy sigh as the smoke hit her ruined lungs. The almost-empty bottle of whiskey came out next, and the look she gave him would be downright sultry if she still had the lashes to pull it off.

"I've been around long enough to observe patterns of human behavior," Beatrix told him, taking a long drag on her cigarette and eyeing him thoughtfully. "Physical and mental... _anguish_ are especially _exciting_ to explore."

Was she _flirting_ with him?

The question wasn't one any longer when one long, weathered finger traced its way up his bicep, over the pauldron on his shoulder, to playfully tug at his collar. Despite himself, John felt his skin break out into a sweat - how fucking hot was it out here, anyway? - and discovered he was already at half-mast, the front of his pants tenting out just barely. He tilted his body to lean against the hot brick wall of the fort in an attempt to hide it and immediately regretted it; the brick was hot as shit and he bounced back away from it, ignoring a gravelly chuckle from Beatrix.

If this worked, he'd have to pay her a visit, he promised himself. He and Daisy had never quite made it work - she was a little too shy about her body, or maybe it was old-world values and hang-ups - and he'd never had a ghoul before. The idea was tempting.

"Sounds like you're a bit of a dom," he told her as she leaned away from him, a grin widening her already broad, nearly lip-less mouth.

"Hey, who doesn't enjoy a little pinch and squeal every once in awhile?" There was a coquettish shrug of her shoulders, as if she wasn't a withered radiation-soaked husk of a woman, as if they weren't talking about pain tainting pleasure, as if he wasn't about to ask her to start life as a prostitute, and John couldn't help himself - he felt himself rise up in his pants.

This was ridiculous. It was too hot out here and he didn't have time for this right now; best to just see if she was interested and then pound pavement.

"You wanna get paid for it?" He tilted his sunglasses down to meet her eyes, and watched as the idea first shocked and the repulsed her. "The Garretts are looking for some new escorts," he said, taking a cautious step back in case she decided to deck him.

But she finally settled on a look of resignation that made every part of him wilt, it was so tragic.

"I'm all boot knives and leather, friend, and a ghoul besides," her laugh was the sound of gravel shaken over pavement, and sad. "What kind of weirdo wants what I've got?"

 _How long has it been for her?_ John wondered. But this wasn't the right time to ask. _Maybe if she goes for it, maybe if we -_

He raised one eyebrow at her over the top of his sunglasses, and gave her the crooked smile that always seemed to get women to stop what they were doing and pay attention to him. It certainly worked on Irma, and that dame had had more than her share of men in her time.

"There are...customers...looking for someone just like you. Don't sell yourself short, sister," he told her. Reached out and caressed what was left of her cheek with one hand, and found he rather liked it. Her skin was leathery, as promised, and rough, but the novelty of it found his flagging erection perking back up.

"Weirdos into bullwhips and necrosis, huh?" Beatrix leaned into his hand for a moment, then stepped back and took a last drag on her cigarette before tossing the butt to the pavement and grinding it under her boot. "Doesn't sound…" and her eyes flicked over him, top to bottom and back up again, and John was sure she could see what had happened in his pants when she began to smile. "Doesn't sound half bad."

"You'd be your own woman," John promised. "No one would own you." _Or I wouldn't be doing this,_ he thought to himself. "You'd probably get a discount on booze, too."

That was the moment he realized he'd won her over. She grunted with pleasure and licked her lips at the thought of the bottles gleaming dimly behind the Wrangler's counter. "Alright...if I get everything you promised, it just might work. I'll swing by to work out my terms. Thanks, sugar."

She was gone before he knew it, boots echoing down the empty street as she headed for the Atomic Wrangler, and John shifted uncomfortably, waiting for his erection to go down and trying not to watch her hips sway as she went.

* * *

"Hold her down, I need her still so I can set this bone." Somewhere above her was a man's calm voice. She couldn't figure out where he was, or how she could both feel and not feel his cool fingers on her arm. There was a grinding sensation - not painful, but not pleasant either - and then a weird feeling of relief. Ice going down her left side, and she felt like she was pushing up through a heavy curtain.

"What about her head?" That was a woman, less calm. She sounded worried.

The man had gone quiet again, but the cool fingers moved to her temple. She tried to lean into them, into the soft pressure, but it didn't seem like she could move well. How did she get here? The last thing she remembered was giving Nash a wink over her shoulder and heading out into the sun, her thoughts focused on getting her ass to Vegas to drop off her package and get a good pounding and a brahmin dinner.

And who the fuck were these people, anyhow?

She tried to ask, but her mouth was full of marbles, or maybe she didn't have one anymore. All that came out was a muffled series of noises, as if she was trying to speak through a gag, and for a moment she panicked.

"She's waking up. She must be in a lotta fuckin' pain, doc." The woman again. And she was right - she was in a lot of pain, and wanted to know what these shitheads were doing to her.

"Here, let's see if this helps," the man said. She tried to speak up, to tell them to let her come out of it, but then she felt a jab in her arm and the head she wasn't sure she had lolled on its own over to one side, and she felt herself drifting.

"Is she going to be okay?"

But Mercedes didn't hear the answer because she was drifting down, deeper into the hole the Med-X made, to sit on the bottom of some endless lake and watch the bubbles make their way to the surface.

* * *

"How are you today? Santiago is fabulous!"

John wouldn't have said the man standing before him looked fabulous, exactly, but he was certainly easy on the eyes. He had a voice like Honey's, lightly accented with sun and heat, and he wore a rumpled tan suit, one lapel of which was frayed into silvery threads. Something about him made John wonder what his lips would taste like, even if he was glad his caps were stowed safely in his chestpiece.

"I guess I'm doing alright," John allowed, stepping past the dandy to perch on what remained of a bench in the quiet corner behind a building. He'd just been looking for a quiet place to take a hit of Jet but this asshole followed him over and sat next to him on the bench, just a little too close.

Mick and Ralph's had been a grade-A bust so far as the Followers' requests went. Ralph had offered to sell him a passport to the Strip, but at five hundred caps the price was a little steep. On the other hand, the guy had told him about a program he could write to turn any unused robot into a primo sexbot, though the look he'd gotten about it made John a little uncomfortable, like Ralph thought he had something on him now.

Not that he'd say no to a robot on principle, John thought. He just wasn't sure he saw himself necessarily going for it.

With one eye slanted towards the man beside him, he ruffled in his pockets and came up with an inhaler of Jet. He took a cautious puff, and just like that, the earthy flavor filled his nose and sent him soaring.

Next to him, Santiago's knee was warm, pressed up insistently against his own. He drifted - only to be brought back to earth by the sound of the man next to him speaking, again. He couldn't make out the words, but just stared blankly, his first hit of Jet in weeks slowing Santiago's voice down to a meandering crawl, his lips moving perversely in unheard words.

Time slowed, seconds creeping into years - and then, just like that, someone hit the throttle and everything sped back up. It felt like things were going faster than ever, but he knew, that was just the way Jet did him.

"I could help you out with that," Santiago said, and he finally understood when he felt the man's hand on his thigh, his thumb dangerously close to his zipper, and realized his erection had returned, hard and pulsing with the aftershocks of the Jet high.

His eyes were lazy as he looked Santiago over, lingering a moment on the other man's mouth.

"How much?" John reached out one hand, letting his fingertip brush against Santiago's lips, and the lounge lizard stuck his tongue out, allowing it to wetly graze his finger. A shiver charged down John's spine, and he raised an eyebrow at Santiago, who grinned.

"Twenty-five?"

"Done."

"Up front," Santiago said, taking John's finger into his mouth with a crude slurping sound that made all the blood rush out of his head.

"After," he grunted, spreading his legs. No way was he going to show this little perv where his caps were and watch him run off with the whole sack while he chased after with blue balls. He knew better - bad enough it looked like they were going to do this out here, in the open - John wasn't going to get fucked like that.

No - he'd be doing the fucking.

Through the stupid fog Jet always left him with, he grinned at the thought of it.

"For you…" Santiago sighed and pulled down John's zipper with nimble fingers. "This one time."

There was an obscene gulping sound, and John leaned his head against the back of the bench, brought the inhaler of Jet back to his mouth, and took a long puff.

* * *

Honey watched Mercedes sprint into Goodsprings. She remembered being able to run like that, when her legs were strong and her head didn't threaten to topple every time she turned it. She'd been so fast then, stopping only occasionally to take breaks for water, and the girl she'd been had been so certain she could run straight up through Sloan.

She could outrun deathclaws, could outrun the sunset that even now turned the mountains purple and the sky yellow. Fat, puffy clouds foretold a monsoon coming, all gold and pink edges. There was a breeze that had been stiff and hot earlier but now, with the lengthening shadows, would make her shiver as her sweat cooled.

After her drink she'd be gone, Mercedes promised herself as she stepped up to the Saloon. She could be in the Strip by the wee hours of the morning if nothing tried to kill her, and be fucking Benny an hour later. Maybe she'd wait to make her delivery till morning and go straight to him, still stinking of sweat and sand and - what the fuck was he doing here?

"Hey pussycat," he said, standing improbably on the porch in front of the saloon. An older man sat there, whittling and watching with a prospector's narrowed eyes, a pile of wood shavings at his feet. Benny's voice seemed a little tight, but then he coughed, and she thought maybe he'd just swallowed wrong.

"What're you doin' here, amor?" He wrapped an arm around her, his hand landing on the small of her back, and she thought she heard a snort from the old man. He smelled of Abraxo and smoke and something different, something sour. She wrinkled her nose; across the road, Honey watched it all and wanted to scream.

"Can't just miss my best girl?" Benny nuzzled his nose into her hair, and Mercedes let out a laugh and swatted him, moving away with a suspicious look gleam in her eye. This time the snort from the old man - Easy Pete, Honey supplied - carried all the way across the road.

She missed the rest - watched as Mercedes made her way with Benny up the hill to the cemetery, heard the pebbles and dirt skitter down the path as she tried to run, then the sharp report of the first gunshot. An hour passed, maybe two, and Honey thought about climbing that hill to see it all again, even though she knew how it ended.

It ended in an eighteen carat run of bad luck, in a gunshot and a shallow grave and the inability to talk or feed herself for weeks. In a lifetime forgotten, in the blink of an eye.

 _Truth is, the game was rigged from the start._

Honey opened her eyes.


	11. This Is Just the Beginning

Way Back Home: This Is Just the Beginning

Notes: Yes, John is an unreliable narrator. Think about how many chems he takes; of course he is. Also, yes, I know Maude's Muggers wear the same dress, but I like the idea of them wearing the same dress in different colors. Deal with it. ;)

* * *

One thing you could say in favor of the Mojave - no radstorms. No storms at all, in fact; the place was as dry as a metaphorical bone, which meant that when John got up in the morning and left the Wrangler he didn't need to worry about the possibility of rain or errant radiation whipping up over him. Nope, no need to worry that a storm might break the heat and quench his skin with a wash of cool, quenching rain. All he really needed to be concerned with was the insufferable heat, the dryness, and -

Alright, it was fuckin' miserable out here. Summer in the desert was no goddamn joke, he thought, wiping his brow and settling Honey's cowboy hat on his head. He'd found it half-shoved under the bed this morning and now he was grateful for something to keep the sun out of his eyes and give the back of his neck a rest from the relentless sun. Despite it all, though - despite the weight of his pack digging into his shoulders, though he hadn't brought much more than some ammo, water, a few pick-me-ups, and the tape he'd bought off Ralph - he was feelin' pretty good. He'd had a few Party Time Mentats after breakfast, and a swig of tequila and everything around him was just starting to go soft at the edges.

Just the way he liked it.

The fallen overpass was behind him and he could see a small cluster of relatively intact buildings ahead. Ralph had told him the old robotics place was somewhere over here, and that'd be his best bet to find a machine to plug the holotape into. If he didn't find one there, he'd probably have to go outside the walls to Outer Vegas and he didn't feel so good about that.

Around him, the broken and vacant windows of the half-collapsed buildings stared like eyes. It was weird how he could feel like he was being watched even with no sign of people around.

The building itself was easy enough to find once he was in the right place; he went into two wrong ones before finding the right one, but it was definitely easier than spending the better part of the day at it. And of course, inside, it was infested with mole rats.

 _Fuckin' aggressive pieces of shit._ And he shot 'em all, one after another, stifling giggles as he did so.

The rest of the building was like any other pre-war office building he'd scavenged. Less interesting architecturally than, say, the Boston Library, but still fairly undamaged considering. It was surprising the number of buildings he'd seen like this already, compared to back home.

Unfortunately, while the building may have been structurally sound, the inside was a mess. Scrap metal littered the place, coated in refuse and splashed now with mole rat blood. Worse, every robot he encountered was broken beyond his ability to repair them. He was about to give up, take a smoke break, and regroup when he spotted it in the corner - one lone Protectron, still in its dock.

With what looked like a functional terminal next to it.

John gave a mad laugh and dashed over only to discover the terminal was locked. He thought about trying to hack it but then again, that'd never been his kind of skill. He was more into stabbing and smoking; he did give it a good thump with his hand and almost cried when it blinked out. Angry, he bashed it again, and the screen came back on.

 _Shit. That was close._

He backed away, hands out almost defensively, determined not to do any more damage. Fumbled in a pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter, then took a deep, steadying pull of smoke.

 _Think, John. You're smarter than this._ He turned in a slow circle, trying to come up with an idea. Maybe he could hire Ralph to come back here and help? Not a bad idea, but it'd cut into his profits, and the whole point of this was to make caps, not lose them. Perhaps as a backup if he couldn't come up with anything else. He could try hacking it but, no, he hadn't become a better hacker in the last ten minutes. He was reaching in his bag for a few more Mentats - _nothing like a little boost when you're trying to think_ \- when his eye alighted on the lockers at the far end of the room.

 _Bingo._ If there was a keycard or something; he glanced back at the terminal. Yes. Just like he'd thought, there was a card reader on one side. He stuffed the Mentats in his mouth and walked over to the lockers.

Locked, all of 'em, but he had a cure for that. Three well-placed shotgun blasts later, and he'd gotten all three lockers open and helped himself to everything inside, which included a magazine, a few bottles of something called Sunset Sarsaparilla, two stimpacks, a vial of something stuffed in a sock and hidden way in the back of one of them...and a key card.

The next few minutes were a blur of activity as he discovered it did work on the terminal and began uploading the tape from Ralph. Turned out it was going slower than expected - old world technology wasn't bad but still slow, apparently, so he headed back to the lobby. He'd seen a couple couches there, and could crash out for a while until the Protectron was ready. He wondered if he should name it.

* * *

"So you're really doing this? This...stupid goddamn _thing?_ " Cass's face was disbelieving. She stared at Honey with her jaw slack, a forgotten cigarette smoking in one hand, a glass with a few fingers' worth of whiskey in the other. Arcade gave her a glance, frowning slightly at her two vices, but said nothing.

Honey sat in the bed. She felt sweaty and stiff inside her clothes, but for the first time since that bullet got lodged in her head, she felt complete. And - surprisingly - she wasn't sure she liked it. All she wanted now was to lie in the bath for an hour to drown her misery and confusion with a big glass of tequila. The Med-X Arcade had given her was starting to wear off and the headache was clawing away at her again, vicious as a yao guai.

"I think I've already started," she said to Cass, whose mouth flapped up and down for a moment before she finally jammed the cigarette back in it and took a long drag - one so long, in fact, that she started coughing, the smoke billowing out of her. Arcade blinked behind his glasses and waved a hand before his face with a wince.

'You killed Mr. House." Cass stood, began pacing. A splash of whiskey jumped out of his glass and onto the floor.

"Yes." She reached out to Rex, who lay next to her on the bed. It was too hot to snuggle a dog, but she stroked his ears anyway.

Cass walked back and forth, wearing a pattern into the plush carpet.

"And you're planning to take on the entire fucking Legion."

Honey's lips set into a thin line. "Yes."

"And you're not going to the assholes in the NCR for help."

A snort from Arcade earned him a glare from Cass.

"Nope."

Cass stopped pacing. "So you're going to do this alone."

Honey nodded, then fought a grimace when the action caused her head to ache again. Best to just hold still.

"I...I don't know about this," Cass said. "That's a tall order."

"It is." Honey kept her tone neutral.

"I need to think about this." There was a clink of glass as Cass set her whiskey down on a table. A hiss as she dropped her cigarette into it. "I'm not...I'm not out, but I don't know. This is big. I need to - to think -"

And like that, Cass was gone, grabbing her gun and her pack and fairly racing out the door. Honey distinctly heard the word "suicide" as the other woman rushed out, so she waited until there was the chime and whoosh of the elevator before she spoke again.

"So."

"So," said Arcade.

"How long were you going to wait?"

"How long was I going to wait until what?" He looked perfectly comfortable, totally innocent. It broke her heart.

"To tell me that you knew me. Before." Her hand was heavy but she still lifted it to gesture at the scar on her head.

At this, Arcade looked a little surprised. She could practically see the wheels in his head turning over what she'd said, and then he allowed a small smile. "I guess some things came back."

"Yeah," Honey tried not to sound bitter. "Some things did." Some things she wished had stayed gone, in fact, but no point in beating that dead brahmin.

"Well," he said, glancing at her over his glasses. He must have seen something in her eyes, because he picked up his supply bag and rifled through it, eventually pulling out a syringe of Med-X. With a shrug, he moved closer to her and said, "It's in the past."

"I feel so stupid," she said, watching as he leaned forward and wrapped a tourniquet around her arm. He tapped her vein gently, and she saw the look in his eyes when he saw how many tiny scars dotted her elbow, white stars on a tan field. "I hate that I -"

"I said," Arcade interrupted, drawing an astringent pad gently over the crook of her elbow, "It's in the past. _You_ are not the person who took those supplies. Not anymore." Gently, more gently than she ever was herself, he slid the small needle into her vein and pressed it home. The narcotic was like ice, if it could both freeze and burn at the same time. Honey leaned back into the pillows, her breathing slowing as the pain began to ebb.

She looked up and met Arcade's eyes. She raised her opposite hand and laid it softly on his cheek. The sparse stubble there was darker than on his head, and she patted him before letting her hand drop.

"I'm still her, at least in part. Whether I want to be or not. And I'm sorry," she told him. "You're a good friend."

"I don't know about that." Arcade moved away but she could see his pale cheeks flush a bit at the compliment. He closed his bag with a zipping sound, and she heard his feet move towards the door. "Get some rest. I'll be back later to check on you."

But Honey was already gone, down the tunnel the Med-X made, into the dark place beyond.

* * *

When the robot had woken him up and announced its new name, John had been mildly disappointed. He'd been thinking of names when he fell asleep on the couch, his cigarette dropping from his hand to burn a small scorch mark in the linoleum floor. Next thing he knew, the Protectron stood over him, announcing a long string of words that John automatically shortened to Fisto. And then he'd thought about it.

 _Fisto._ No beating around the bush there, as it were. Even less so when it had told him to assume the position.

He'd thought about saying no. It'd be easy enough to send the thing on its way, he thought - but then again, he might never have this chance again. And he was pretty curious -

So, with little preamble, he'd dropped his pants and bent over and waited.

Fisto did not disappoint.

* * *

Mercedes was scrambling in the storage room of the Old Mormon Fort. Behind her, invisible or whatever she always was during these visits to her hateful memories, Honey stood, watching as the woman she'd been ransacked the place. Mercedes shoved handfuls of stimpacks in her bag, then grabbed another handful of Med-X, and topped the pack off with flexible bags of Rad-Away. Honey thought she'd throw up when she saw how much was gone, especially given that the plan was to sell all but the Med-X which she'd save to get high before she'd fuck Benny anywhere he'd have her. The rest of the caps went to extravagant meals, to fancy drinks at the Ultra-Luxe, to hot showers and other wasteful things.

When so many had so little, Courier Six hadn't minded taking more.

Honey followed her through the door of the fort, knowing somehow what would happen next. And sure enough, Mercedes slammed into Arcade, bouncing back a little and rocking nervously on her heels. When she saw it was a man, she started playing with her braid - trust that girl to try to seduce her way out of any trouble she could, whether she was the guy's type or not. Sometimes just the novelty was a way to deflect interest in what she was actually doing, Honey thought clinically, watching.

Arcade, fortunately, was not interested.

"What exactly were you doing in there?" One of his eyebrows was raised as he looked past Mercedes to the door swinging shut behind her. Honey invisible - it was a memory, fed by the Med-X - leaned against the brick wall and crossed her arms. Thought ought to be good.

"Lo siento, senor, no hablo ingles," Mercedes pulled her hat low over her face and ducked past him, and Honey felt her own face turn red somehow. Because it was a lie, of course it was, Mercedes spoke perfect English even if she sometimes had to run a sentence through her head first. Honey watched Arcade watch her other self for a moment before he turned back to the door and charged through to discover the ransacked room.

There was a shout from inside the door, and Arcade charged back out, face redder with anger than Honey had ever seen, but Mercedes was gone, out the gate and disappeared into some decrepit building by now; she knew the one, around the corner with the boarded-up window that was actually a secret door. She'd - Mercedes had, anyway - spent quite a few nights in that hidey-hole, strung out on Med-X and watching the stars through the patchwork ceiling.

That night had been particularly fun, Honey recalled. There had been Med-X, Jet, and handcuffs involved; she'd worn purple bruises as bracelets for nearly two weeks afterwards and smiled every time she'd seen them. And despite her revulsion at how it started, it still made her heart beat faster to think of it.

* * *

John sent the robot on ahead, unsure if his legs could function well enough for him to walk. There had been a bottle of oil involved and he'd certainly had an orgasm that would put most previous ones to shame, but...well, walking wasn't going to be easy for a little while. Instead he lay face down on the couch, face smushed into the mildewed blue fabric, and smoked with his naked ass in the air, too sore for him to pull his pants up over it.

A fine sight he'd be for any raiders or scavengers who might come through, he thought, but there was no sourness in it. With the tingling still coursing through his body it was a bit difficult to get worked up over anything. He let out a sigh and for a while he drifted, half asleep and half in memory. At some point he took a few hits of Jet and then he was flying -

When the room around him seemed to have grown darker, he decided it was time to head back. The room at the Wrangler was paid for, and he was no spring chicken anymore; he'd be better off sleeping in a real bed, or at least his back would be. Plus Garrett owed him some caps. Tired and a bit sore and not sure why - or why his pants were down but well, that was just how things went sometimes - John pulled his pants up and tightened the peeling leather belt around his waist. The cowboy hat he resettled on his head, and his pack hoisted easily over one shoulder.

Outside the sun had almost gone down, and so it took him a moment to the three women who approached from around the corner of the building. All three wore tattered cocktail dresses in various pastels, and he'd tapped his hat to them before he realized they were wailing and waving rolling pins as they ran towards him.

John took a defensive step back, wondering if perhaps he'd just done a few too many chems. And when was the last time he'd eaten? Could he be hallucinating -

The question was literally knocked out of his head when the handle of a rolling pin connected with his hat, swiping it off and into the side of the building and leaving a ringing in his ears. John ducked the worst of it and took a roll across the alley, where he landed propped up against the opposite building, trying to get his bearings.

One of the women, this one in mint green, bore down on him and he rolled towards her at the last second, barrelling into her ankles with his back, knocking her to the ground. His hands were on his shotgun then, and he whipped it up as a woman in pink wailed on him from above.

The shot went through her, creating a hole in her sternum, and he rolled away again as she dropped to the ground. The woman in green scrambled to her feet, rolling pin clutched in one hand, but she was close and a fight between a pre-war kitchen implement and a shotgun will never be fair. He fired, the loud report nearly deafening him as it echoed off the walls of the alley, and she fell to the ground, twitching.

It was then that he felt a skinny, wrinkled arm wrap around his throat. A rolling pin smacked him in the chest - shit, that hurt - and he rocked forward, throwing the woman who'd grabbed him from behind over his head to crash to the ground before him.

"One chance," he growled, pointing the shotgun at her. "Turn around and -"

But the woman screamed and waved her rolling pin at him, and John was left with no choice. With no time to load the shotgun, he grabbed the iron barrel of his gun with one hand, swung it in an arc so that he grasped it firmly there like a club, and smacked the elderly woman in the face with the heavy walnut stock. Blood splattered everywhere as her face cracked in on itself, and she dropped like a stone to the ground, a puddle of grimy lavender silk and creased skin.

John stood over her panting, the shotgun heavy in his hand.

 _What the fuck?_

* * *

It was late by the time Honey stepped into The Tops. She'd spent some time after she awoke lurking in the bath, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a bar of soap in the other. When the water was cool with a scrim of dirt floating on top she finally climbed out, toweled herself off, and spent some time staring at herself in the mirror.

The scar from the bullet was faded some - maybe the stimpacks Arcade gave her this go-around had made some further impact, or maybe it was just from all that time in the sun. Either way, it didn't bother her so much as it had at first, when she'd woken in Doc Mitchell's little in-house clinic, scared and alone and with no idea who she was or where she'd come from, with nothing but a bullet in the brain and a fresh scar for a map.

She pulled a dress from the wardrobe - might as well fit in, and the Strip was safe enough - and styled her hair. There was a charcoal pencil in her pack, and she lined her lashes cautiously before the mirror, filled in the part of her eyebrow that was blank with scar tissue. The face that looked back at her wasn't Honey's bare skin, but with the scar, it wasn't Mercedes either.

She wasn't sure whose face it was anymore.

The guy at the door of The Tops insisted on taking her visible weapons and she left him - they were just for show anyway. The little .22 strapped to her upper thigh was easily missed when she put a hand on his suited shoulder and made a crude joke, and no one was going to find the switchblade between her breasts if she had anything to say about it.

Yes Man. Benny had told her to find Yes Man, but she had no clue where to start. Mercedes' memories were back but patchy, and not a single one of them included a Chairman named Yes Man, though they all had equally stupid names, Honey thought. Maybe it was code? Maybe someone acted like a yes man and so she was supposed to figure it out? Maybe -

But that was when Swank saw her. He always had gone in for femininity, she recalled. Benny had been more flexible in that department, happier to see the desert on her, but Swank likes his girls perfumed and be-silked, with clean hair and perfect skin. Tonight she supposed she was close enough.

"Hey there, baby, haven't seen you in a dog's age," he greeted her with a buss on the cheek. She leaned into it, the smile that men always liked blooming on her face like a reflex.

"It's been too long," she purred as his lips caressed her cheek, counting the seconds that his hand lingered at the small of her back as just barely too long for a guy meeting his best pal's girl. Interesting. Maybe the dress had been a good idea.

"Haven't seen you since Benny beat it. Would've expected ya to flip, but I gotta say -" His eyes raked over her and she felt a traitorous tingle in the base of her spine. "Here ya are, lookin' the _most._ "

Honey rolled her head on her neck a little and fluttered her eyelashes. How long till she could ask about Yes Man? How much flirting did she need to get through to get what she wanted?

"Thanks, Swank, that means a lot coming from you," she sighed. "I know you've always had the best taste."

His hand tightened at her waist, pulling her a little closer to him; he lowered his face to her ear where his breath was hot and scented of booze. This was getting out of hand. She played a hand across his lapel, smoothing the worn fabric.

"Any chance you could point out Yes Man for me?" Her voice was as girlish as she could make it, and Swank's shit-eating grin didn't change, though his hand drifted lower to the top of her ass.

"Why you lookin' for anyone but me, baby?" His roaming hand gave her a squeeze and for a moment Honey's brain checked out as she thought about pressing herself against Swank, Benny forgotten. The new leader of the Chairmen was broader in the shoulder, a bit thicker around the waist; this close she could see his nose had never been broken. He was _softer_ than Benny.

 _Benny._ The thought of his name was enough to steady her though.

"Tell you what," she said softly, pulling herself out of Swank's arms and giving him a tap on the nose with one finger. "I'll meet you later."

"Don't worry dolly," Swank winked at her. "I'll razz your berries right." There was that twitch inside her again, and Honey hurried away to the elevator before she could change her mind.

The ride up to Benny's suite was quiet; she was alone in the mirrored elevator with nothing to see but copies of her own reflection staring back at her, all pink cheeks and sleazy red dress. No wonder Swank had been all over her; she looked up for anything. Maybe Benny's suite would hold a clue she'd missed before, a scrap of paper or something -

There was a ding as the elevator's doors opened, and her heels were quiet on the soft carpet as she made her way to the double doors that marked Benny's suite. Inside everything was the same as it had been weeks ago, when she awoke alone and fled the Strip, terror driving her every move. Somehow with the knowledge that House was gone, she felt easier here.

On the bedside table still sat the note he'd left her, the word Pussycat smudged by something wet, although she'd be damned if she knew what. Had he cried writing this? Had she cried reading it? More likely there was a leak in a pipe in the ceiling above the table. The pack of cigarettes sitting next to it looked the same, though. She sank down on the bed and pulled one from the pack, crossing her feet and thinking as she lit it. Her eyes closed as she tried to think.

Somewhere in this building was someone with the answer. Somewhere -

There was a sound of scraping and rattling in the wall. And a high-pitched whine, the kind associated with electronics. Honey's eyes flew open and she darted across the room, out the door and into the living area. Sat quietly. No hum. No rattle.

This time she began opening doors and sure enough, with only a moment's poking she found the door at the end of the short hall opened into a broken wall.

Stepping through the wall carefully in her polished heels, Honey found a securitron. Where she might have expected it to be hostile though, this one wore a smiling face on its center screen, and when it greeted her, she realized how silly she'd been to flee the first time without searching the suite more carefully.

"Hey! Hi there, good to meet you! What can I do for you today?"

She stared up at it, thinking this had been way, way too easy. The cigarette hung between her fingers, forgotten; she remembered it was there and took a puff, blinking.

"Are you...Yes Man?"

"I sure am!" The securitron chirped happily at her. Honey took another drag of her cigarette and pinched her arm with two fingers. This was nuts. But real. "Say, you wouldn't happen to be Benny's special lady, would you? He told me you might come by!"

Honey nodded blankly before managing a croaking, "Yes, I guess I am."

"Well that's just super," Yes Man said. "Benny said I should give you any help you need." His monitor blinked for a moment. "Looks like Mr. House is out of the picture."

"He is," she said, finding an ashtray on the counter to her left and stubbing out the cigarette.

"I'm so glad to hear that! Gosh, you sure are getting things done ahead of schedule."

Honey raised an eyebrow at that. This was really turning out to be an interesting day.

"This is going to be great! I'm going to help you accomplish so much, whether I want to or not!" Yes Man babbled as Honey pulled up a stool and got to work.


	12. My Head Keeps Spinning

Way Back Home: My Head Keeps Spinning

Notes: Some canon divergence here. I'm going to stop notifying for it after this chapter, because we're going to encounter more and more of it.

* * *

As he walked closer to the side street that would take him to the Wrangler, John saw a man who looked familiar: tall, blonde, glasses, bizarrely pristine doctor's coat. He frowned, trying to recall why he might recognize the man approaching him. Armande? Aloysius? No - neither of those were right - _fuck, what was it?_

He remembered the guy's name at the last second, just before it would have been embarrassing to have forgotten it, and greeted him with an easy smile.

"Arcade," he called, and the other man turned, blinked twice, and nodded.

"John, was it?"

John nodded, holding his hand out in a friendly way. Arcade took it cautiously, as if he might catch on fire, and John tried not to take it personally. Still - was there a twinkle in the other man's eye? Might be. It was cute.

Hell, _he_ was cute. _Wonder what he looks like under that coat._

"Where you headed?"

Arcade gestured up the road. "Just back to the Fort for the night." The fort? Oh - not Caesar's fort, John reminded himself. No, the old Mormon fort, the one where the Followers were stationed. He wasn't sure if it was the chems or what but he seemed to be having trouble keeping track of all these new people and groups. Nothing had seemed so complicated back home but - then again - home was familiar. Home was _boring._

"You got a lotta work waitin' for you?"

Arcade shrugged. "Probably no more than usual. I might be a doctor, but I haven't exactly got what they call a 'good bedside manner.' I mostly work in research."

"I bet your bedside manner is just fine." John stopped himself before he winked. Just because the fella was cute was no reason to assume he'd be interested in...well, in _him._ Plenty of guys weren't - or at least, wouldn't admit it to themselves. Some guys had hang-ups like that.

But the look in Arcade's eye was definitely there. He blinked for a moment, and pushed his glasses up with one finger, and was that a blush?

It was. It _definitely_ was. John wished there was someone around to appreciate the way the pink spread across the other man's pale cheeks, faint and downright adorable. He fought a smirk and lost.

"Say," he said after a moment, realizing Arcade was about to slip away from him. "Any chance you wanna get a drink? I was heading up to the Wrangler."

"With you? Right - uh, right now?" Arcade blinked again, as if he was trying to process the invitation, and John tried not to let his grin spread. He'd been told before he looked lascivious when he thought he was going to get what he wanted, and while he wasn't entirely sure what the word meant, he had a feeling it was dirty.

"I - well, you see, the Followers. We don't really...drink."

"Not even one beer with a new friend?"

"I'd hardly call us friends," Arcade said. Ouch. That hurt. John's face must have said as much, because Arcade relented. "Well, I suppose a friend of Honey's may as well be a friend of mine. And one beer couldn't hurt."

"That's the spirit," John crowed, linking his arm in Arcade's and practically pulling him towards the casino. "C'mon, this'll be great."

* * *

Leaving Benny's suite, Honey's head practically swam. This was no small-time deal - not that she'd thought it was, but - well. The list of tasks Yes Man had assigned her wasn't long but it wasn't going to be easy. Boomers? Brotherhood of Steel? The Great Khans - as if she wasn't having enough flashbacks as it was, now she was supposed to go have a chat with them?

 _Fuck that. Que locura._

Before she could make it to the door, she physically ran into Swank. It was almost comical the way she slammed into him as she rounded the corner. He caught her in his arms, the smile that creased his face a dirty promise. Her knees wobbled, but it wasn't from exhaustion; much as she didn't want to admit it to herself, Honey found herself wondering. The thought of Swank's hand on her waist flashed through her mind again and when he asked her to join him for a drink the next thing she knew, Honey was in a seat at The Aces, an Old Fashioned in one hand.

Sitting a bit too close, Swank rubbed one hand on hers. Honey took a careful sip of her drink and tried to figure out what she wanted here. That night alone with John at the Wrangler - that had been comfort, not love. And Benny was probably dead already. He would never know, could never be hurt by things he didn't know about, no matter the rivalry he'd had with his second.

If she - with _Swank_ of all people -

There were some crimes that couldn't be forgiven. Kind of like shooting someone in the head.

She took another sip of her drink.

* * *

One beer turned into two pretty easily, and by the time they'd hit three, Arcade's eyes were heavily-lidded and his glasses slid down his nose to an angle that could only be described as charming. The good doctor had a winning smile once he wiped that irritatingly smug expression off his face, and John found himself laughing harder than expected at the other man's surprisingly sharp sense of humor.

When the cranky ghoul comic took a break, John ordered a fourth beer for Arcade and - while the doc wasn't looking - slipped a couple Mentats in his mouth. No need to stop the party now, but he had a feeling the other guy might not approve, given the dirty look he gave his new beer before he took a sip.

"So, uh -" Arcade paused as if considering something. John waited, barely patient. "What's the deal with you and Honey? She doesn't exactly bring a lot of folks around to meet us."

John smiled at the thought of the courier. "She's a damn fine woman."

Arcade nodded. "She is that." He took a sip of his drink. "But - what's the, um. The nature. You know, of your...association with her?"

Man, the guy was _drunk._ John tried to remember if there was ever a time three beers got him this drunk but couldn't remember when he'd ever had just three. He mulled over it for a moment, lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift away. Tried to focus.

"You know, I thought you two were…you _know,_ " Arcade said again, filling the silence between them. His raised eyebrows said what his words couldn't, and again, John found himself thinking how cute it was that the doctor - what was he, almost forty? Certainly around his own age? - couldn't put it out there.

John leaned his chair back on two legs and let a grin cross his face again at the thought of that night with her upstairs. The memory of her panties in the bottom of his pack. That had been fun.

"I'm not exactly a...one woman guy," he allowed. "Not really a one _person_ guy." He definitely didn't imagine Arcade's blush this time. This time he turned bright red under the light stubble on his cheeks; it worked its way slowly down his chin and neck to disappear under his shirt collar. "I guess I like to keep my options...open."

Arcade's adam's apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed. The blonde man took a long pull on his beer, and John let his eyes wander away. He scooped up his own beer and took a swig, waiting for Arcade to speak.

There wasn't a chance though - at that moment, because at that moment a drunk wove his way from the bar to half-collapse on him. He tried to shove the wastelander off himself with a curse but found the man's greasy arm wrapped around his own.

"D'ya mind?" He gestured away from their table, trying to avoid Arcade's amused grin.

"Not from around here, are you?" The drunk tried to focus on John and failed before closing one eye in the attempt. That seemed to help him fix John in his gaze, though he still wobbled.

"Nah, brother, I'm from the Commonwealth." John kept trying to disentangle himself from the other man, but no matter what he did the wastelander seemed to get more enmeshed with him, not less. This was quickly getting tiresome. He tried to ignore Arcade snickering at him.

"I been t'the Commonwealth," the man wrapped around his arm slurred. "Buncha fuckin' pansy-asses out that way. Not like...out here," he gestured wildly, grandly, at the casino around them.

John raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"You might want to watch that type of talk around me, friend," he said, infusing his voice with a trace of menace that the drunk missed completely, or perhaps ignored.

"Nah," the other man turned, pushing one grimy finger into John's chest, smearing a bit of dirt on his shirt. Well, shit. That thing had been clean this morning. "You heard me. Fuckin' -" he paused to dry heave. "Fuckin' assholes, the lot o' you. You wanta really live hard, you gotta come out here."

"I am here." Why was he arguing with a drunk? He knew better than this.

"The fuck you are."

This was growing tedious, as was the sound of Arcade giggling behind him. The baritone laugh was pretty sexy, though.

"Look, buddy," John started. He never finished because the drunk slugged him in the jaw with one disgusting hand that smelled of beer and some sort of half-rotten meat. The blow didn't particularly hurt - the guy's limbs were too weak at this point for him to be able to do much damage - but like fuck could he let the guy get away with that.

"This is your last chance -" John dodged another blow, this from the other side. Behind him, Arcade collapsed in a puddle of laughter.

That was _it._

"Fuckin' East coast asshole," the drunk slurred, going for a third punch. This time John was ready for him; he tipped his chair back again onto two legs and when the wastelander stepped forward, he fell past John onto the floor under the table. It was only a moment before he was on his feet again, fists wobbling before his face, but John was ready for him. When the drunk charged, he side-stepped again, putting one elbow between the guy's shoulders and knocking him off-balance. This time when the drunk went down he stayed down.

John collected his seat again, giving the wastelander an annoyed look where he was sprawled, snoring, where he'd rolled under a nearby table. "It's the _beast_ coast, motherfucker," he muttered before picking up his beer.

* * *

The Ultra-Luxe had always made Mercedes nervous, and when Honey walked into the lavish casino the next morning, she discovered it had the same effect on her. She'd thought the White Glove Society would be less unnerving than trying to deal with the Omertas and so had put on a nice dress but now - faced with eeries white masks and crisp tuxedos - she wasn't sure.

She'd barely ordered an overpriced drink before some redneck rancher in an oversized cowboy hat approached her. Shifting in her seat to speak with him, she could feel the .22 strapped to her leg rub between her thighs. The secrecy of sneaking firearms in everywhere was already growing tiresome; she was going to need to start going places where she needn't hide her gun to feel safe.

"Beg your pardon, stranger, but I'm looking for someone."

Wasn't that always the way these things started?

* * *

John woke alone in the armchair in his room with Arcade's name on his lips, though the other man was nowhere to be found. Arcade had taken the bed, worried about returning to the Fort drunk, while John had collapsed in the chair with uncharacteristic gentlemanliness. Given how late it was in the day, John had no doubt that Arcade had gone back to the Mormon Fort to get back to work; still, the memory of the way the doctor's eyes crinkled in laughter made him smile as he got up and lit the first cigarette of the day. He grinned as he swallowed a couple Mentats and reclined on the bed with the ashtray on his chest, studying the cracks in the ceiling and dreaming like a schoolboy about what Arcade's lips might feel like.

Eventually it came to him that he was wasting time, smoking and drifting but before he could make a decision about what to do with his day, he dropped the cigarette into the ashtray, moved the ashtray to the bedside table, and curled up to sleep.

He'd had a busy few days, after all.

* * *

Turned out the rancher was looking for his son. Not the kind of thing Honey found she could ignore, even with her plate as full as it was. Or maybe she was avoiding everything that Yes Man had assigned to her. Maybe it didn't matter.

Either way, she found herself standing before an elegantly-dressed woman, practically begging for a sponsorship to their creepy club and cursing Yes Man for sending her there. Cursing Benny for shooting her and entwining her in this goddamn fool's errand. Cursing herself for giving a damn, cursing Joshua Graham for telling her to come back to this fucking garbage pit of a city.

"The White Glove Society is the most exclusive club in all of New Vegas. Perhaps the entire world," Marjorie said calmly - too calmly, really. What the hell was this lady on? Calmex? Med-X? She didn't even sound snooty or superior, the way Honey might have expected; she sounded as if she was reading a crumbling pre-war newspaper. After all, who could get worked up over squabbles from two hundred years ago?

"It's only natural that you'd need a sponsor from within the club who can vouch for your good name," the brunette continued. "Originally we didn't allow anyone else in, you see. Founding members only. We thought exclusivity would make us the envy of everyone who's anyone." Inside Honey's head, she could hear Mercedes' snide scoff. The courier remembered before the Strip was what it had become; she remembered the Sawneys and their reputation for...unusual tastes. She remembered before the white gloves, the blank masks.

"I just...don't think you fit the bill, dear," it was clear from her placid tone that Marjorie expected the matter to end there. The woman glanced at the scar on Honey's temple and a bell went off in Honey's head. Well, of course. Couldn't have the gunshot victim walking around such a fancy-ass place in their fancy-ass clothes.

How wrong she was.

Honey ungritted her teeth and smiled. "Marjorie," she began, her voice as smooth as her name. "I think you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot here. You see, I'm not asking. I've heard about the disappearances. And the masks and your pinche dress code don't fool me; I remember the Sawneys. I remember hearing tales of patéticos who wandered off in the desert to the north and were found eaten."

Marjorie blanched, pink spots burning bright in her white cheeks. _Jesuchristo, when was the last time this woman went outside?_

"So," Honey continued, her tone as sweet as ever, thanks to the Med-X she'd shot up in the dead investigator's room. "I'll be happy to get Heck Gunderson his son back and leave you alone - or I'll tell every person on the Strip what's really going on here."

"You wouldn't -"

"Wouldn't I?"

Marjorie stared at her and Honey stared back, and for a moment - under the powder and the silk, under the pomade and fine leather shoes - Honey could see the woman Marjorie had been before, the scrounging desert-dweller who'd scrabbled and killed for everything she'd ever gotten. When she saw it, she knew she'd won, and so she pressed just a little harder, dropping her voice to a hypnotic, low serpentine tone.

"If I have to, chiquita, I will kill every fucking person who stands between me and Ted Gunderson." She raised her brows. "Do you doubt me?"

Marjorie dropped her eyes from Honey's and the courier nearly swore in relief. It had been a gamble - she remembered enough of the stories about the Sawneys and she didn't particularly want to end up an entree. But then again, gambling had always come easily to her.

"I didn't want to; Mortimer, he -" Marjorie's eyes seemed to wobble in their sockets and she fought off a wave of tears. Honey felt a twinge of annoyance but kept her face still; no need to scare the woman off when she was finally getting somewhere. Marjorie swallowed one, hard, and then continued. "He wants us to return to the old ways. To - you know."

"Eating -"

"Please don't say it," Marjorie hissed. It was there again, that flash of the woman she'd been, a hint of the desert still hot in her blood.

"Let me handle it," Honey murmured. "Sponsor me, let me find Ted, let me get him out of here and I'll even handle Mortimer if you want."

"Please...don't kill him."

"You love him," the tone in Honey's voice was teasing even though the idea made her stomach flip in disgust. "Why?"

Marjorie looked back up, meeting her eyes for the first time since her threat.

"Why does anyone love another person? Some things you can't...I suppose you just can't explain." Honey felt a pain in her chest, an ache with a name and a checkered coat, kneeling in dirt and cuffed, a living wound that had caused her so much suffering and bliss.

 _Truth is, the game was rigged from the start._

 _It sure was, you cabrón._

"I can't stop the others from doing what they think is necessary when I expose him," Honey said. Marjorie nodded. "But I won't hurt him unless I have to."

The White Glove co-chair let out a breath and visibly deflated. "That's all I can ask. Thank you." She set her shoulders back and visibly brightened. "Come, let me show you to our exclusive Member's Only section."

* * *

It was late in the evening before John made his way downstairs to the casino. Both the Garretts stood behind the counter, and he didn't think it was his imagination that told him James had a bit of a satisfied smirk on his face as he went about his bar duties.

"Heya, chum, welcome back," the barkeep said, setting a glass with a generous amount of whiskey in it before him even before John could order. John smiled, took a sip. This was the good stuff, the whiskey Honey had ordered the first night they'd been here. He hadn't tasted it since; everything James had served him till now had been rotgut.

 _Amazing what bringing a man his heart's desire will do._ He gestured to Fisto, standing over by the stage.

"See you got your sexbot up and working already," he smiled lazily at the gleam in Garrett's eye as the other man followed his gaze across the room. He'd thought it was lust, but there was something else there, too. On the other hand, lots of orgams could fool some people into thinking they were in love.

Then again - well, who was he to judge. He might not've ever fucked Daisy but it wasn't for lack of trying.

"Yeah, he's definitely been satisfying...our customers, I mean," James said, pushing a pack of cigarettes across the bar to him. John took them with a wink, lighting one and stowing the pack away. He could get used to freebies like this, although it wasn't his plan to stick around here much longer. He'd heard people talkin' about the Gomorrah and with the promise of a passport waiting from Ralph, John had it in his mind to go pay that place a visit.

"Thing is," John drawled, letting the smoke drift out his mouth like a dragon. "Fisto's a heavy-duty piece of equipment. One of a kind, built to last…" He raised his eyebrows at Garrett, who was practically salivating on the bar.

"You're right, you're right," the man practically tripped over his own drool at the thought of it. "Something like this, it's worth a little extra because it's going to keep on satisfying you…" At the look on Garrett's face, John almost lost it in giggles. The little perv was really fuckin' committed to his special-order fucktoy. You had to give the guy some credit for follow-through.

At the other end of the bar, there was a mad giggle from Francine and John sucked some smoke in from his cigarette to keep from joining her. That seemed to draw Garrett back out of himself again, and he stumbled over some cover that included words like "disgusting fetishists" and denial about fucking a machine.

"Hell, I'd let it fuck me," John interrupted. He drew a Jet inhaler from his jacket pocket and took a quick hit. There was the initial taste of dirt or dung, and the plasticky finish that made his teeth vibrate, and then Garrett went a little squishy around his face. A green aura - the color of old world money - seemed to form around the barkeep as time slowed. The look of surprise and kinship on Garrett's face was clear despite the chem's influence.

"Anyway, here's some caps, along with a little something special I scraped together for you," Garrett pushed a pile of caps, three inhalers of Jet, and a tin of Mentats at him.

John stared down at his reward, and a lazy smile drifted across his face. He grabbed the chems and began slipping them into his pack; the caps went into a separate bag. As he looked about the casino it occurred to him that this really was his kind of place: shabby, welcoming, and full of deviants. He'd have to make a point of coming back here sometime.

"You folks need anything else around here?"

"I don't think we do right now," Francine said, coming over and shoving her brother out of the way with her hip. He knew the look on her face - she was hoping to make more caps; some girls, that was all they cared about and no doubt she was one of them. "Unless you're lookin' to buy."

"Not right now," he said as apologetically as he could, tipping his hat at her. He had a dim memory of a cowboy doing that in an old holotape he'd watched at the Boston Library. Something about cattle - pre-war one-headed brahmin - and horses and wide open desert spaces. He never thought he'd be there.

As soon as she'd appeared, Francine charged back to the other end of the bar. John lowered his voice and leaned over the bar to Garrett. He was enough of a freak that he'd probably know the best places to go.

"I'm thinkin' of heading up the Strip," John said to the other man. Garrett nodded with a knowing smile and leaned forward with a rag in his hand. With a glance at his sister, he turned back to John and pretended to wipe the sticky bar.

"Gomorrah, man. They've got whores and booze for _days._ It's where I'd go."

"Anything else I shouldn't miss?"

"See if you can get into the Gourmande for dinner. It's in the Ultra-Luxe. But, uh, don't drink there. Too pricey. Hit up The Tops maybe. I hear their theater's got some new acts, too. Might be worth a try."

John nodded, took a last drag off his cigarette, and crushed it out. It gave off a last gasp of smoke, the stale white mist rising in his face, and he picked up his glass, draining it. When he set it back down on the bar, a single clear drop trickled down the side of the glass to the wet ring that sat on the dark wood.

"Thanks James," he said. "It's been a pleasure."

"And to you, buddy. Thanks."

The first thing John did when he made it inside the Strip gates was to stop, stock still, in front of the Gomorrah itself. There were women in underwear - some of them wearing just tape across their little nipples, some in chains, some in black hotpants - dancing in front of the casino. His dick twitched entirely on its own, clearly delighted with this turn of events.

So he went in.

* * *

Ted Gunderson was a pathetic, whiny, miserable little son of a bitch, and after spending five minutes with him, Honey had been tempted to put him back in that damn freezer. But she remembered the sad cant to his father's shoulders, the way Marjorie had gripped her hand before sending her back, and so she'd gritted her teeth and dragged him with her, fingers tangled in the grey-blue collar of his shirt. His skin was cold, way too cold, under the thin weave of the fabric, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was going to die.

The look on Mortimer's face when Ted walked in after his grand speech about returning to their roots was priceless. She just hoped she'd be able to keep that; it seemed the memories slipped past her more easily than they used to. This, though - to surprise someone who'd wanted to eat another person -

Well, it had been great to see the man's jaw flap up and down uselessly as he'd tried to figure out where everything went sideways, anyway. Almost made up for the tragic look Marjorie had given her as the other White Gloves had led her lover away. _Probably to the same damn freezer,_ Honey thought. _Maybe ol' Mort would get what he wanted, after all. Just not the way he thought he would._

The giggle that died in the back of her throat sounded like Mercedes and it made her a little sick.

Ted, still half-frozen and with his fingers turning blue, had followed her, bitching and wailing, all the way to the Mormon Fort, where Julie had looked him over with her usual stiff gaze, then guided him to a tent for medical attention. The brat gone, Honey was getting ready to go look for Arcade when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

It was the father, Heck. Heck? Maybe it was short for Hector? Well - maybe she shouldn't be wondering about other people's names. It's not like "Honey" had some great history - it was just what Doc Mitchell had called her before she could remember anything and somehow it'd stuck.

"I just wanted to thank you, ma'am, fer helpin' me get my boy back." It occurred to her that the father was no taller than she was; he was older than she'd realized. He looked tired. A wave of understanding washed over her. She wondered if this was what her mama had felt for her, that fear and fiery love, and that was why she sent her off into the desert to die, perhaps, rather than be a slave.

"It was nothing, Mister Gunderson," she tried to slip away, but he gripped her hand. Not hard, but it was like a magnet. She stood still; waiting.

"No - it -" There were tears in his eyes. Fuck. Don't go soft on me, she thought. Please. "Just - take this. It's nowhere near what you deserve. And if you're ever out West, come on by for a steak."

Honey nodded, slipping her hand from his grasp and accepting the heavy sack of caps he held out to her. "Of course."

The brahmin baron straightened, fixed his suit jacket, and turned to follow Julie, his bodyguard trailing behind him like a baby bighorner after its ma. Honey shook her head, immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness hit her, and turned back towards Arcade's tent.

The doctor was inside, though he looked a little rumpled. Honey stopped, lingering in the doorway with a smile. It was a moment before Arcade noticed her, and when he did, he nodded at the gown Marjorie had given her, then gave her a loud wolf whistle. "Lookin' pretty great for a corpse," he told her, and the smile that came to her face was one of the best ones she'd felt since she woke up all those weeks ago and discovered she couldn't walk.

Honey sank into the chair opposite him, brushing her hair from shoulders. It was pretty clear Arcade was feeling a bit under the weather - his usually pristine hair looked disheveled, unbrushed. His doctor's coat was wrinkled, though still free from stains. Under his eyes were dark purple smudges, as if he hadn't slept. And there was the distinct smell of -

"Arcade," she couldn't suppress the smile. "Are you drunk?"

The doctor stiffened and blinked at her. Glanced around, then leaned towards her and spoke in a low voice. "No - I, uh, may be a bit hungover."

Honey let out a peal of laughter that was abruptly silenced when he clapped a pale hand over her mouth. She giggled into his hand, so hard that tears began to stream out of the corners of her eyes. Hiccuping and gasping into his hand, she collapsed in on herself, the ivory silk of her dress crushed into thin creases as she howled.

It was several minutes before she was able to collect herself enough for Arcade to remove his hand. Swiping tears from her eyes with the back of one hand, she met his eyes.

"How did this happen?"

"I may have run into your new friend last night."

This nearly set her off again, but when he gestured at her, she crushed her lips together and blinked until she was calm.

"John?" A nod from Arcade. "Did you…?"

The doctor had the nerve to look offended. "What? I would never - not with someone I just -"

Honey held up her hands in an appeasing gesture, the smile making a reappearance as she tried not to laugh right in his face. "Hey, I never thought to see you drink enough to get a hangover," she said. "So...did you?"

Arcade rolled his eyes so hard he nearly took his head with them. "Of course not."

"But you want to."

This was met with a stony glare that told her everything she needed to know.

"Hey, I say go for it," she said, shrugging and smoothing the billowy skirt of her gown. "I certainly had a lot of fun."

"I don't know…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she spit out. "I've just about had enough of this mierda from you." Arcade stiffened, blinked at her, and then leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "If you want to fuck the guy, do it. You deserve some fun too," she added, softening her tone just a bit.

His face was uncertain. "We'll see."

Honey stood, reaching for her friend's hand. "Come on. Let's go do something?"

"What - now?" But he let her pull him to standing.

"Yes, now. It's after nine already."

"That's my point," Arcade scrambled as she made her way to the gate, tugging him behind her. His hand was tight in hers and she wasn't going to let him go easily. "It's so late!"

"Not for us. Not tonight," she said, pulling him with her to The Tops for a drink. She might just make good on her promise to Swank, if the guy played his cards right.


	13. You Must Have Lost Your Way

Way Back Home: You Must Have Lost Your Way

Notes: Some of this chapter is kind of gross. Sorry. Blame John and his need to bang everything that moves.

* * *

The problem with Swank was that he wasn't Benny.

Honey sat in The Aces theater, listening to the cowboy she'd recruited singing and strumming his guitar, nursing an Old Fashioned and trying to decide if this was a good idea after all. She'd gotten up about a half-hour ago to go to the bathroom and when she came back, Arcade had disappeared; instead, in his seat was Swank, who had given her a look that could only be described as salacious.

When she'd sat, he'd offered her a cigarette; when she'd pulled one out of the pack, he'd lit it with a flourish, using a gold-plated flip lighter more opulent but no less distinctive than Benny's. When she'd drained her drink and crunched the ice at the bottom, he'd signaled and another one had appeared at her elbow.

She knew what all this meant, had seen him seduce enough dames over the years to know where this was going. Now, alone with him sitting close enough for her to feel the heat of his body through his suit, she wondered if coming back here had been a good idea after all.

 _Home, home on the wastes,_

 _Where the mole rat and the fire gecko play._

 _Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,_

 _And my skin is not glowing all day._

It wasn't that she didn't feel like she could handle Swank; it was the thought of Benny that plagued her. It shouldn't have, but there was a hole in her chest that gaped whenever she thought of doing something that would hurt him. It hadn't been there before Mercedes came back; maybe that bullet had scrambled her feelings and the blow to the head when she fought the securitrons had unscrambled them.

He'd loved her in his own way, hadn't he?

 _Why does anyone love another person? Some things you can't...I suppose you just can't explain._

Marjorie again, wistful and honest and plain-spoken. Honey lifted her drink to her mouth and drank the whole thing down like medicine. Beside her she could feel Swank smirk at it, and when she set the glass down there was his hand on her thigh, like clockwork. Hot fingers, searching for skin amid the taffeta skirt, curious.

 _Where the_ _rads ain't too high, the water's not bad,_

 _The_ _radscorps are playful and mild._

 _Oh, I would not exchange this home on the wastes,_

 _For all the big cities so wild._

The thing about Swank was that he was all surface, all Vegas flash and dazzle, from the polished toes of his wingtips to the perfect creases of his pinstriped suit. His hair was pomaded, he smelled of two hundred year-old cologne; he spoke in the parlance of the old world. It was who he was, through and through. Nothing of the desert remained in him; when they'd shed their skins and become the Chairmen he'd gone in for it completely, and now the Strip had consumed him and left nothing but a Rad Pack fella behind.

And Benny - she'd known it from the first time she'd seen him after they'd gone to The Tops. He had the veneer, the verbiage and the carefully styled hair, the checkered coat and the clean pale skin. But underneath, inside his coat, there was still the Mojave malice, coiled like a snake, waiting like a trap for someone who thought he was nothing more than a gaudy fashion plate.

It was like comparing a cactus flower in a vase to one on the bush; one was pretty, if lacking in substance. The other would destroy you if you tried to take it.

Swank's hand traced higher up her thigh and, despite her turning brain, she felt a hitch in her breath, a flutter between her legs. She didn't want to, or maybe she did, but whatever her brain thought, she parted them a bit and let him slide his finger between to fumble at her under the table.

His voice was against her ear, there was the brush of stubble on the soft skin of her neck. "Whaddaya say we blow this pop stand?"

It occurred to her for the first time that she was very, very drunk. She should get out of here, yeah, but without him, without -

Honey stood, taking his hand and brushing her skirt down, giving in to the worst thoughts within her. Swank's hand in hers felt obscene after what he'd just done, but she let him lead her out of the theater and upstairs to his suite, just down the hall from Benny's. Smaller but nicer, with freshly repaired wallpaper and a nicely-made bed with clean sheets.

The problem with Swank was that he wasn't Benny, but then again, Benny wasn't here, and Swank was, with his tender hands and drunken kisses. Benny was more forceful, and John had been more thoughtful, but Swank was here, and he was warm and he wanted her, and for tonight it was enough; for tonight, she was just drunk enough not to care what Benny would think if he ever found out. Or maybe she did care and was glad of it; she couldn't tell.

* * *

It took John a total of about four hours to decide that Gomorrah was Hell.

He liked it well enough at first; the asshole at the door had been pretty aggressive, asking to confiscate his weapons, but with the combat knife stuffed down the inside of his pants, John felt safe enough, so he'd handed them over. It would have been nice if the guy'd been a little less of a dick about asking for them, but as he wandered the casino he learned pretty quickly that being shitty to their guests seemed to be Gomorrah's standard operating procedure.

"The fuck're you looking at?" Some asshole in a grimy suit and a cheesy fedora asked as he walked past him, and for a moment he considered socking the guy one for bein' a dick for no reason, but then he'd caught a glimpse of the party in the back and had given that thought up in favor of the hookers dancing back there.

The casino floor wasn't his kind of scene - despite Honey trying to teach him the finer points of Blackjack that night, he didn't really care for it - but in the back was a club with booze and chems on sale and so much naked flesh writhing around on stage he popped a boner before he could even settle at a table. Looked like Gomorrah didn't discriminate, either; there were men up there dancing, women, even a ghoul, wiggling about as succulently as her withered flesh would allow. He sat there for a while, taking a hit of Jet and then another, grinning to himself as he imagined what it would feel like to climb up there and just - mmmm.

 _Not a bad idea at all, coming here._

"Maybe we should take this party to the courtyard, huh?" This came from behind him, one man's drunk voice talking to another. John turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of three - no, four - men in what looked like some kind of military get-up, sitting behind him and to the right.

Courtyard?

"Yeah, that'd be great," the third guy in slurred. He was so drunk he almost couldn't hold his head up, and for a moment John felt a wave of irritation. _Fuckin' lightweights, always falling all over themselves when they tried to do a night out right._

"I hear that Dazzle'll fuck anything that moves," a third voice, this from the far end. "Maybe we could set up a good ol' fashioned gang bang." There was a collection of chuckles at this, and the sound of four heavy-booted men getting up and heading for the door.

John glanced down at his own erection. It definitely wanted some action. He looked back up at the dancers and gave a sigh, then stood and followed the soldiers out the back door. They seemed to know where they were going, and while he didn't want to join any sort of train situation, this courtyard sounded interesting enough.

The door was heavy, and he had to walk a bit slow to allow for what was going on in his pants, and when he made it outside, the soldiers were already down a long pathway in the moonlight. The courtyard, such as it was, had a pool in the center of it that reflected every bit of the bright silvery light. On either side were round tents; from these he could hear giggling and soft moaning, and one of them actually seemed to be moving.

All that was blocked a moment later, though, by a woman who stepped before him, an absolute vision in black leather and chains, brown hair and liquid eyes and plump lips parted in a sultry smile.

"Well, what do we have here, huh? Let me guess. You've heard about the mistress who makes all your fantasies come true." Her voice, a soft purr clearly meant to entice a man, reminded him of the tone Honey had struck in the Legion camp.

John stopped, glanced over his shoulder a little. No one there; she was definitely talking to him.

She was still talking, still purring in that too-sweet tone, but the way she was dressed was...doing things to him, things that made him willing to overlook the hint of desperation in her tone.

"Now that you've found me, I wonder, do you have what it takes?"

This was funny; it probably wasn't meant to be, but it was funny enough in its own dramatic, overblown way that John found himself laughing, a coughing, hacking laugh that caused the woman - he'd missed her name - pause the strange writhing she was doing and look at him with concern.

John pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket, lit one as she looked on, and took a deep inhale. Her look slowly morphed from one of concern to one of mild offense.

"Darlin' I always have what it takes," he said finally, fixing her with a steady gaze.

"Confident, huh? I like that?" She seemed on firmer ground here, and the look she gave him seemed almost grateful, as if his combination coughing and laughing fit had made her nervous in some way. "So, what do you want to do with what you've got?"

This was funny, too, although again, she probably didn't mean for it to be. He stifled another laugh with a drag on his cigarette and caught a loud gale of drunken laughter coming from one of the tents at the far end. A flap opened down there - he could just catch it by the light of the lanterns strewn about - and one of the soldier guys from before was shoved out by his friends. This kind of talk probably worked on green boys like that, but he was no raw kid from the sticks; even at his age he was probably one of the oldest people out here.

No, John didn't need a fancy seduction from a woman who was obviously a hooker. Still, it seemed important to her that he play along, so he did. He took a step forward, looked her up and down, and pressed himself against her dangling hand.

"The better question, sister," he traced his free hand over her shoulder and down her bare arm, and she shuddered. "Is what _you're_ going to do with it."

The girl - because she was a girl, up close he could see just how young she really was, she couldn't be older than twenty - shivered away a bit, laughing in a way that spoke of practiced flirtation. "Oh my...aren't you something else! I guess you'll have to see for yourself what I can do, huh?" She grasped his hand in hers, and pulled him after her towards the stairs and up to a private room.

* * *

After she left Swank's room, Honey didn't know what to do with herself; she walked twenty feet down the hall and, on a whim, tried the door to Benny's suite. She didn't really expect the door to open, but it did, and after a moment she found herself inside, looking around at the rooms where she'd spent so much time.

She was drunk, and she was tired, and she didn't know where to go The Lucky 38 wasn't that far, but no one was there and she didn't want to be alone. Swank had offered to let her stay the night, but the idea of waking up in his bed seemed final, like she was putting a pin in whatever had come before. It was stupid, given his track record with "broads," as he called them, but it did.

If what she'd done was some kind of revenge, it didn't even seem worth it now; the sex had been mediocre, the fumblings of a man who had seen too much pornography and was more interested in what he thought he should be doing than enjoying the act itself, and now she found she wanted Benny more than ever. If the idea had been to put him behind her, it had failed miserably.

Honey paced the room, starting to come down from whatever mad impulse had brought her here, and wandered into the bedroom. Benny's bed sat there, still rumpled from the last time she'd been there with him, and before she knew what she was doing she'd toed off her shoes; she pulled the dress over her head and left it in a heap by the open bedroom door. The sheets were as soft as she remembered, and somehow still smelled like him, like sand and heat and tanned gecko hides.

She pulled the sheets around herself and breathed in his smell; his pillow she brought down over her head, and the smell of his pomade was the last thing she noticed before she passed out.

* * *

Joana's room was fuckin' _weird._

She'd stopped to speak to someone on the way, another working girl who'd called her by name, and John was saved the embarrassment of either asking her again when she'd clearly told him or fucking some girl without knowing who she was. Not that it'd be the first time - or the last - but the feeling of unease about this place was mounting and something in him said that he needed to pay attention, that this girl was important.

Her room was windowless, which was something that he'd begun to notice was a theme out here. Lit with a red lantern, like some pre-war lady-of-the-night bullshit, and a fuckin' heart-shaped bed. A bed shaped like a heart.

 _Weird._

Weirder still was the way she was when they got in there. Maybe it wasn't weird, exactly - she was acting the same way she had in the courtyard, with the sex kitten act and all, so at least she was consistent - but here alone, just the two of them...well, it was weird. To him, anyway. He wasn't opposed to a fun tumble with a stranger - that was one of the most fun things in life, right up there with a good high - but this, well...

It was wrong. Something was fishy, as the old PIs in the holos in the library used to say.

"Come here, baby. I'm all yours. Are you ready to be all mine?" Her hands were at his jacket, pushing it off, unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt, and that was when he saw the marks on her arm. Small, white, perfectly round, all along the veins that went down her left forearm. He grabbed her wrist and she paused, and he inspected them more closely; he could feel her squirming, trying to get away, but he'd seen enough track marks to know what he was looking at. There were a few, higher up, near the elbow, that were red and fresh.

John had hung out with enough junkies to know long-term Med-X use when he saw it. And when he did, everything slid into place. The way she spoke to him, practiced and cheesy in her seduction of a paying customer. The leather and chains; the jittery, nervous way she moved as if - as if she was jonesing for her next fix.

He took a step back, releasing her arm, and took a last drag off his cigarette before crushing the butt out in an ashtray on one of her strangely empty shelves (and why did she have so many shelves in there with nothing on them. Weird).

"How long you been using?"

"I don't - I, um - we…" Joana's face changed. She looked like the radstag he'd caught in a trap once, out hunting with Martin.

"Let me guess," he began, pulling another cigarette from his pack and lighting it. If what he thought was going on here really was, he'd need the whole pack to get through this mess. "You started working here wantin' to get out of some backwoods hellhole, right?" She didn't nod, but he continued anyway. "Wasn't so bad at first, and then they started givin' you chems, just little pick-me-ups to make the day more fun?"

Joana didn't move, didn't say a word. It was like she was frozen, rubbing her track-marked arm and gazing at him. Even her eyes seemed stuck in their sockets. He sucked in more smoke then blew it out slowly and continued.

"Before you knew it, you were usin' all the time, just to keep straight because otherwise you get the jitters and the shits, right?" This earned a small nod, so small he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for it. "And now you can't leave because you owe them for all the chems you've been using and you can't make enough money to pay off your debt."

"They own you now, don't they?"

She crumpled in on herself; pale shoulders shook in the gory red light, her hands flew to her eyes, and there was the thin sound of sobs coursing through and out of her.

"I'm - I don't know what's happening to me. I can't feel a goddamn thing anymore, empty and poisoned like the Wasteland. I'm afraid I won't make it out of here, not without Carlitos. If the Med-X doesn't kill me first, Cachino or another Omerta will. Ha, I look pathetic, huh? The great Joana and now... I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

John wrapped his arms around her and there were wet tears, hot and smelling of salt, in his shirt and against the bare skin of his chest where she'd worked the buttons free. He let her cry, and she leaned into him, her thin body more bony than he'd realized before; the addiction must be pretty bad. He'd probably need to get Arcade in here to see her, maybe get her a few doses of Fixer, but first -

There were two syringes of Med-X in his bag. If she was this bad off, it'd be best to just give them to her to help her through the next day while he tried to figure out what to do.

Gradually, the crying stopped. Joana was still in his arms.

"So...who's this Carlitos then?" She sniffled, wiping wildly at her red face, and John thought distractedly about how no women really looked good crying. She moved back from him and sat down on the bed. After a moment he followed her, sitting almost a foot away and setting his pack on the floor between them. As she talked he began rifling through it, looking for his stash of chems.

"He's - well, he _was_ \- my lover. He's an Omerta -"

"The group that runs this place?" There were the Jet inhalers, and the box of Mentats. Almost there.

"Mhm," there was a flash of light and the sound of Joana sucking in some smoke. Sounded like she'd decided to have a cigarette to steady herself. Good call. "One of the three families on the Strip. The other two...well, the Chairmen are okay. They run The Tops. I would've liked to work there, but they don't employ girls. And the White Glove Society…"

"What about them?" He wanted to keep her talking, keep her cool. If she was talking she was distracted and calm and somewhere under the cans of purified water should be - there! His hand closed around two plastic-wrapped syringes.

"They're creepy. You hear things about them."

"Here," he said, changing the topic by placing the two doses of Med-X in her hand. Joana blinked, shook her head, and looked up at him. For a second he thought she was going to start crying again and he could feel a groan building up in him, but then she didn't.

"Oh. Oh, wow," Joana flung her arms around him, one hand gripped tightly around the syringes. "Thank you!"

John tried to get out of her embrace but she was strong, for such a tiny girl. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"I can - you know, if you still want to -"

"I don't know how Carlitos would feel about that," he flashed her a smile as they moved apart, but it didn't have the effect he was hoping for. Joana's face went sad, her smile drooping.

"He wouldn't care. He knows - knew - that this is what I do."

"Something happen to him?"

"Cachino. He kicked him out when he found out that Carlitos and I were...you know." Joana took a meditative puff on her cigarette. "I don't know what happened to him. I'm not allowed to leave."

"Do you…" John pulled an inhaler of Jet from his bag and took a hit. The red light in here was giving him a headache; the Jet coursed through him and suddenly everything felt softer, slower. _That's better,_ he thought. "Do you _like_ what you do?"

Joana's laugh was tinkly. Her voice was actually pretty nice when she dropped the dungeon mistress schtick. "You know what? I actually do. People come here to have fun and I help them do that. I like having fun with new people, and some of my return, um, clients, are kinda like friends."

Something was coming to him. It was going to be hard, and dangerous.

Probably a lot of fun, too.

"How would you like to be in charge around here?"

* * *

The first thing Honey became aware of was how thick her tongue felt in her dry mouth. The next thing was the heaviness of her head, like there were boulders in it, and then she realized her brain was positively aching. The soft spot on her temple, the thick ridged scar - it was all hot and red and angry and it occurred to her that she was probably overdue for a dose of Med-X. There was a smell around her, both familiar and not, and that was when she realized where she was.

Benny's bed. Benny's suite, at The Tops.

The night before came back to her in a rush, and she groaned. Swank. So many drinks. There was an aching in her thighs and she remembered going to his room and -

"Oh, fuck," she hissed at herself, flopping over on the bed and slamming into someone who yelped in surprise.

"Hey!" A man's voice. A man?

Wait. What?

Couldn't be Benny, he was - where was he? Oh, right, in Legion custody. Didn't sound like Swank. What the hell was another man doing in the bed with her? What did she do?

With an effort that felt superhuman, she levered one of her eyes open. It took a moment for her to register what she was seeing - or maybe it took a moment for her good eye to focus, but when she did, sure enough, there was a man in the bed with her. A man with mussed blonde hair, glasses, and an annoyed expression.

 _Arcade._

With a sigh of relief - she hadn't blacked out and decided to pick up some random man off the casino floor and fuck him _in Benny's bed_ \- she closed her eye and dropped her face back into the pillow.

"Hey, sleeping beauty, any reason you just smacked me?" He sounded annoyed but still like himself.

"Where the hell did you come from?"

"I can't understand you when you speak into the pillow," Arcade told her. It sounded like he was still wincing and she wondered where she'd smacked him. With a heavy groan and the feeling of rocks smacking against her eyeballs, she lifted her head and fixed him with a baleful glare.

"I asked where you came from. I went to the bathroom last night and when I came back you'd gone."

Arcade pulled his glasses off and inspected them. Used the corner of his white coat to wipe her finger smudges from the glass, then resettled them primly on his nose. "Your - er - friend Swank came to the table and gave me a bunch of chips, told me to 'have some fun' playing games and that I could crash in here. Said you were...going to be busy."

Honey frowned. "Were you still gambling when I came back here last night?"

A nod from her friend. "That time I was in the bathroom."

Honey dropped her face back into the pillow; her neck was sore with the effort of keeping it held aloft and it felt like her temple was going to explode. Not for the first time, she wished Benny had finished the job he'd started and actually fucking killed her.

Maybe he had and she was already dead.

"So, did you have fun then?" Was she imagining the toying tone in Arcade's voice? No, decidedly not.

"You think I'm a slut," she said into the pillow.

"Not at all. I don't remotely understand your fascination with these guys but, hey, different strokes and whatever."

Honey didn't say anything but wondered if Benny maybe had some chems lying around she hadn't seen before. Maybe there'd be something in the nightstand?

She sat up, far too quickly - although any upward motion might have been too fast with the way she felt - and tried to focus her eyes. Whether it was the hangover or the brain damage, it didn't seem to work. Squinting, she fumbled at the nightstand and pulled the drawer open.

Jackpot! A syringe of Med-X, still in its wrapper, and a piece of rubber tubing, and a can of unopened water. Probably she was the one who left them there, long before the bullet hit, but hey, she didn't care. Obviously Mercedes was just looking out for her. It took almost no time to administer the injection, and though it did nothing to help the dry mouth, she found the pain in her scar receded almost as soon as the feeling of ice in her veins did.

When she looked up again, Arcade was watching her carefully. There was a book in his lap - where he'd gotten it, she'd never know - and she wondered how long he'd been sitting there reading, watching her.

"I've got to get it together." She didn't expect an answer to that, and he didn't give her one. She found herself grateful; none of the other Followers seemed so willing to watch another person self-destruct, but then again, she'd long known there was more to her friend than she could figure out.

"So, not that this hasn't been fun," he said, spinning and setting his feet on the floor. "But don't you think you ought to get dressed and get out of here? I mean, moping in your dead boyfriend's bed doesn't seem like the best use of your time."

Honey looked down at herself and realized she was still wearing nothing but her underwear. Across the room, the gown Marjorie had given her lay in a wrinkled ivory heap. She covered her hands with her eyes and grimaced. If it hadn't been for the Med-X she probably would have just stayed there.

The dress was easy enough to put on again, but the shoes were more complicated, with their straps and buckles. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the bed and sleep for a year, swaddled in the blankets that still held Benny's smell and dreaming, but Arcade was right; she'd gotten herself into a war and now she had to keep moving. When she'd done enough to make herself presentable - at least by Strip standards, she nodded at Arcade and they headed for the elevator.

As they rode down, she considered her next move. She'd have to hit the Gomorrah next, deal with the gang of raging assholes there, and then head further afield. The Boomers. The Brotherhood of Steel. The Khans. Her skin crawled at the thought of it, or maybe that was the hangover again.

"I guess I need to go to the Gomorrah," she told Arcade as they left the casino and walked into the too-bright Mojave morning. The sun made her head ache despite the opiate in her system, and she cringed at the thought of dealing with the Omertas.

"Might not be a bad idea to head back to the Lucky 38 first," he said, not unkindly, as they passed through the Strip gates. "Get some food in you, maybe a bath, perhaps some weapons."

"You're just hungry," she said sharply, and he laughed a little.

"Caught me." A genuine smile crossed his face, and he looked over at the Gomorrah, waving a hand at it. "It'll still be there in - hey!"

Leaning against the wall, legs crossed and smoking a cigarette was John, giving them a wave.


	14. Why Don't You Do Right?

Way Back Home: Why Don't You Do Right?

Notes: This chapter gets very violent at the end. Some people finally get what they deserve.

* * *

Rex had been very happy to see them when they returned to the Lucky 38. Honey felt a twinge of annoyance at herself for leaving him there alone, but - then again - she hadn't really wanted anyone tagging along on her adventures the last few days, canine or otherwise. The dog followed her to the bathroom while Arcade got started scrounging up breakfast, and John wandered off to explore the place. She slipped into the tub, warm water up to her chin, and tried not to think about the last twenty-four hours. Tried not to think about the electric feel of Swank's hand on her thigh, and the decidedly less-amazing theatrics that had taken place in his suite.

 _You banged my best friend, pussycat. Not exactly what I expected from a broad like you. Can't say I'm real thrilled with the fact that you moved on from me so damn fast._

 _Fuck you, Benny. You shot me and left me for dead. We're not even close to even._

 _I thought you agreed no hard feelings. Besides, you know why I did that. You can't hold it against the Ben-man for trying to save Vegas from the evil clutches of Mr. House, dig?_

 _Come mierda, you asshole. You knew I loved you and you killed me anyway. I would have just given you the fucking chip._

 _No you wouldn't have, and you know it. You always took that job way too serious. Besides, everyone knows pussycats have nine lives, anyway. You've got a few more to go._

 _You're just in my head, just like that pinche real you is probably dead in an unmarked Legion grave by now._

 _I wouldn't count on that, baby. You know Caesar's gonna leave me for you. So...how'll it be? Crucifixion? Gunshot to the head? Me, I'm hoping you choose the ring fight. Never did sit right with me that you couldn't fight back the first time I killed you._

 _Get out of my head. Leave me alone._ Honey splashed some water on her face, trying to drown the sound of his voice out of her brain. In the kitchen she heard Arcade curse softly as something started beeping. There was the smell of smoke. She should probably get in there and help, but instead she was in here, having a conversation with a murderer.

"So here you are," John announced himself as he came around the corner. For a moment she considered grabbing a towel to cover herself, but then she paused. He'd already seen everything she had anyway; no point in getting a perfectly good towel all wet.

He looked around the bathroom appraisingly. "You got some nice digs here, sister." John sat on the bench next to the bathtub and offered her his cigarette. She sat up a bit and let him put it in her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips. The smoke was hot, harsh, and somehow reassuring in her lungs; when she breathed back out se found herself relaxing against the back of the tub with a sigh. Something about exhaling the smoke made her feel better, somehow, like she was letting go.

"Yeah, I suppose this place is okay," she told him, gripping the soap from the side of the tub and beginning to lather herself up.

"Okay? Shit. We haven't got anything like this at home."

"What do you mean?" She started as he took the soap from her, but then his hands began to lather her back. Gently, softly. The tension seemed to seep from her shoulders as she felt that one spot between her shoulderblades finally get clean. Since she was shot she never could quite reach it; feeling the dirt come free was incredibly liberating.

"Any of it, really," he said, voice soft and gravelly. "We got some buildings that run off generators, but no power like this. No running water, and if you want hot water you gotta make it over the fire."

Honey nodded. "Most of the Mojave's like that, too, although Vegas gets our power from Hoover Dam."

"What's that?" There was the softness of a washcloth on her back and she bit back a moan. It was so nice to be touched gently by someone with no ulterior motives. It had been a long time since she felt comforted by another person.

"The dam?" She was surprised, but so relaxed by now that her voice didn't show it; she sounded half-asleep, even to herself. John's hands moved up to her hair, gently wetting it and working the soap through it, one tendril at a time. "Hoover Dam sits across the Colorado River, to the east of here. You know when we went to Caesar's camp? We were right near it."

"And it makes power?"

Honey nodded into his hand, and John began to rinse the soap from her hair. His fingers lingered briefly on the scar tissue on her head, tracing the lacy ridges. It felt nice.

"Yes, the water running through it generates electricity. I'm not an engineer, so I don't quite know how. But that's where we get our power from. And it's why the Legion in here, why Caesar is attacking here instead of to the north or south."

She could feel John nod, the motion making a vibration down his arms. "So what's this NCR I keep hearing people talk about? Is that all the fuckin' soldiers I see stumbling around?"

Honey's laugh resonated inside the curtain her hair made with her head tipped forward. She flipped it back and rested against the side of the tub to look at him again. He really was a good-looking man, she thought. Looked dangerous enough with his dark eyes and ironic brows, a combat knife shoved in his boot, but there was something more there. Something to make you keep looking.

"I forget how little you know," she said, as he made his way to the other end of the tub with the bar of soap. His sleeves were rolled up, and he reached into the water to pull one of her feet out. Tenderly, he ran the soap across the underside of her foot and she gasped out a giggle.

"I know plenty," he said, and this time something changed in the air. It sounded provocative. "Just not about this."

"The NCR," she began, "is the New California Republic. After the bombs fell, they started up a government out west. They've been...well, pretty successful." John dropped her foot back into the tub and grasped her other ankle, pulling that foot out and soaping up her calf in low, slow strokes. "The problem is that they tend to take what they want without asking much about it first. They're not all bad - I guess I prefer them to the Legion - but...well, they've reached too far this time."

"Ah," John nodded knowingly, dropping her foot back into the tub. He stood, stretched loosely, and grabbed a towel for his hands. It looked like he was going to ask her something, and then Arcade's voice called out that food was ready and if they wanted any, they'd better hurry up.

"I could eat a whole brahmin, so don't expect me to save you any," Arcade called, and Honey smiled.

"Better go get some grub," she said, sitting up to get a towel of her own. John smiled at her, threw her a wink, and headed out the door.

 _Forgetting me already, baby?_

 _Hush, you._

* * *

"I'm sorry, clearly I must have wax or something in my ears. I thought you said you wanted to take out all the Omertas, and then you asked for our help," Arcade looked mildly annoyed. "And that can't possibly be right, because it would be suicide."

John leaned back in his seat, rocking the chair back on two legs. He lit a cigarette over the lunch dishes, and smiled slowly at his new friends. Honey looked like she might be in on it, but then again, that was no surprise. That girl'd be down for most any massacre, he thought. And really, he couldn't do it alone.

Just the same, he'd made a promise to Joana, and he planned to keep it.

"C'mon, Arcade," Honey's voice was wheedling, sweet as her name, and he could see the doctor's hackles go up almost automatically. "Just think of all those poor girls in there, strung out on Med-X and working for peanuts just to feed their addiction."

He could see Arcade's feelings warring on his face. It was clear he wanted to go in and help the prostitutes, but that outright violence was something he wanted to avoid.

"Fine," the doctor grumbled after a minute. "I'll go. But I can't promise I'll shoot anybody."

"That's fine, dear," Honey's hand caressed his, and John spared a moment to be amused. _Like an old married couple, except they fuck other people._ The look in Arcade's eyes was less happy, but it was clear he agreed, at least on some level, that this was the right thing to do.

"So I'm figuring we hit 'em late," John started again, leaning forward so his chair legs dropped onto the floor, setting him level. He took a drag of his cigarette. "Maybe very early in the morning, between three and six, when everyone's tired and half-fucked from chems and booze."

"Better make it a little later, then," Arcade cut in, and John didn't miss the surprised smile Honey shot him. He shrugged. "What? I figure around eight or so most of them will be sleeping. It's not as if these are upstanding gentlemen, after all."

Honey shook her head, holding her hands up, and smiled. John continued, "Ok, so we go in when we figure everything'll be relatively quiet and only a few gamblers. We don't want to hurt the little guys, just the fuckers in the shitty suits. And we take 'em out one by one. Joana'll get the working girls up into her room where it'll be safe." He pulled out a piece of paper and the pencil Honey had found him in the desk in her room, and began sketching floorplans.

"So I'll go straight there first thing and stay there with them," Arcade said as John pointed to the location of Joana's room, off the courtyard and to one side.

"And I'll stick with you and we'll head up to take out the big guys upstairs," Honey said, pointing to the balcony overlooking the casino floor. She let out a sigh. "I sure wish Cass was here. We could really use another gun, and she's got a good head on her shoulders."

"Sure wish I was here for what?" There was a voice in the doorway, sardonic and lilting, and when John turned his head, a pretty woman about his own age stood there, arms crossed, cowboy hat tilted back. She smiled at them and gave a small wave, and then Honey was up and crossing the room to hug the new woman.

"You came back!" The new woman, the redhead, looked a little embarrassed as Honey hugged her, then gave in and leaned into it.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't let you have all the fun taking on those red-flag fuckers," Cass said, and John found he liked her already. "So what's the new project?"

"We're going to Gomorrah. Apparently we're going to kill all the Omertas and take over," Arcade said in an overbright, sarcastic tone that did nothing to hide how he really felt about this plan. John let out a guffaw at the sound of it, and the look Arcade shot him was softer than his usual snarky expression. He replied with a wink as Cass walked over the table, and took far too much pleasure in watching the doctor's cheeks turn pink.

Cass sat, dropping gracelessly into the empty chair, and John caught of whiff of whiskey, like perfume. Yeah, be definitely liked this gal. "Seriously?"

Honey nodded, taking her own seat again. "It's John's idea," she gestured. "John, meet Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Cass, this is John."

Cass held out her hand and he shook it. Firm, solid grip, dry hands; she would be a good shot, he bet. And if she ran with Honey, he had not doubt in her abilities. "John McDonough," he said to her, and she nodded.

"So you're the one who wants to take out all those shitheads, huh? What's the big plan afterwards?"

He leaned back in his chair again, lifting the front two legs of the chair off the floor and balancing with his knee on the underside of the table. "Gonna hand it over to the working girls there."

Cass let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Yeah, definitely count me in. I don't even need to know the plan, just point me at 'em and let me know who I can shoot." Next to him, John could see Arcade roll his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't fall out of his head. He bumped the other man's knee lightly with his foot and Arcade flushed again.

Yeah, definitely cute.

"The real question," Honey was saying now, "is how we get the guns in through the front door. Little stuff isn't going to hold up to whatever those guys are packing."

"Hey, I've got an idea," Cass jumped in. "How 'bout we just go in and shoot every single asshole who tries to stop us?"

* * *

They spent the rest of the day lazing around the suite; Honey took a long nap with Rex at her side, and Cass tried to teach John to play Caravan before giving up in frustration. Arcade went back to the Old Mormon Fort for a while in the afternoon to gather up supplies, and shortly after sunset Cass headed to take her own bath. When John went in to check on Honey, he found her passed out, a used syringe on the floor next to the bed and the dog snoring softly beside her.

Coming out of her room, he found Arcade just coming off the elevator. The doctor started a little when he saw someone standing in the hall, then his expression softened.

"Thought you might not come back," John said, eyes tracing the lean lines of Arcade's legs. He wondered if his legs were even paler than his face, if that was even possible.

"Almost didn't," the blonde man said shortly, setting a battered black doctor's bag on one of the tables in the front hall. "They asleep?"

"Honey is," John said, drifting down the hall towards the lounge. "Cass is taking a bath."

Arcade nodded, following him almost unconsciously. "That's good. We all really should - that is, I should go get some sleep as well." The doctor paused, halfway down the hall, and looked back towards the bedroom. "Tomorrow's a big day, and it'll start early."

"Come on," John said, softly, and watched as two different ideas began to play across Arcade's face. "Come have one drink and a game of pool with me."

"I don't know how to play."

"Don't worry," he said with a wink, circling back and looping his arm through Arcade's. "I'll teach you."

The doctor stiffened slightly at the unexpected physical contact, then relaxed as John guided him down the hall and through the door. The heat of his body through his heavy white coat felt good against John's forearm. He smelled like soap, and something soft and almost flowery. Some kind of cologne, or toilet water?

The billiards table sat on the other side of the room, massive and green, with the balls floating loosely around it and two cues resting against it, just waiting for someone to come along and play. John wondered how long they'd been like that - surely no since before the war? A small cube of crumbly blue chalk sat next to them, and he picked it up and helped himself to a pool cue, testing the weight of it in his hands as he smeared chalk on the tip.

Arcade picked up the other one, tossing it gently back and forth as he waited for the chalk. John finished and handed it off, and began racking the balls in the plastic triangle.

"Feels nice to have a hard piece of wood in my hands again," Arcade said, and John - who'd been lifting the plastic triangle up to put it away - dropped it with a shocked laugh and a clatter. Billiard balls scattered, knocking into the walls of the table and the six ball sunk itself in the near corner pocket. He turned to Arcade and saw the other man looking at him, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"What'd you just say?" Was he flirting with him? Flirting? With him? This was amazing.

"You're not the only one who can make obscene jokes, you know," the taller man said, leaning his pool cue against the table and pulling off his doctor's coat. He placed the neatly-folded jacket on the back of a nearby chair and turned back. John couldn't help himself, though; he was staring and he knew it. The doctor was lean under that heavy coat, though his shoulders were broader than expected. Who knew he had a waist under that jacket? Now John did, that was for sure.

"Apparently not," John said, winking at him and grabbing the plastic triangle and a couple striped balls. He gestured to the other end of the table. "Care to help me with my balls?"

The guffaw Arcade let out made John's knees fill with jelly. Was this really happening? He'd thought the doctor a bit too tightly wound for this, but apparently he'd decided John was okay in his book. Somehow. The blonde man walked to the far end of the table, hands on the green felt, and he tossed balls back to John, who caught them carefully and set them in the triangle. In a moment, he'd re-racked the balls and lifted the frame away, and Arcade had lined up his first shot.

He watched the dark wood of the cue dance between Arcade's pale fingers; the tip of one fingernail had a bit of blue chalk on it, and somehow that one detail made him realize something he'd been denying to himself: he really liked this guy. It wasn't just that he wanted to jump his bones - and oh, yeah, he really, _really_ did - there was something more going on here. There was something in the curve of Arcade's jaw that made John want to kiss it, something in the way he rolled his eyes when he was annoyed that made John want to run a finger up his cheek and take off those glasses.

John had never been in love, and he didn't think he was now, but damn if this wasn't different from any other flirtation that had come before.

"You gonna go?" Arcade was watching him carefully, one eyebrow raised and a sardonic smirk on his face. Did he know what was going through John's head? Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a hit of Jet right now, something to give him the room to breathe, to think this out -

He startled, turning his pool cue in his hands, and nodded. Arcade took a step back to give him the space to plan his move, but John didn't need it; instead, he tossed the cue aside and took the three steps to Arcade almost at a run. Before the blonde man could react, he had his hand on the doctor's cheek, fingers grazing the stubble there, and was guiding his chin down to bring their lips together.

John leaned up slightly - the doctor was a couple inches taller - and leaned into it, pressed himself against Arcade's cool, dry lips. The doctor parted his lips slightly, a tongue snaking its way out, and John had a moment to marvel at it, at the fact that the man before him was a man, not a boy, he'd done this before, and why was that a surprise to him?

He shifted forward, one hand on Arcade's hip, and there was a loud thump as the other man's pool cue dropped from his hand onto the carpet. He'd wanted this from the first moment he'd seen him, and now it was happening and he almost couldn't believe it. Had he taken a bunch of chems and this was all an hallucination? But a dream wouldn't be leaning into him so tenderly, wouldn't be slipping one pale hand up his sleeve to guide John closer, wouldn't be pressing his body against John's so deliciously. A fabrication, a chem-induced fantasy wouldn't be turning so hard against his thigh.

Their bodies slid together, somehow in sync, and John slid even closer into the circle of Arcade's arms, one hand working its way up the other man's back, pressing his shoulder-blade to pull them closer together, and he could fee a shiver go through Arcade as they crushed themselves together. The same shiver seemed to work its way into him, starting at his lips and making its way down his spine and into the root of his -

"Hot."

The two of them jumped apart, almost guilty. Cass stood in the doorway. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. John felt a distinct and intense urge to shoot her.

"Cass," Arcade said, flushed and sweating and smoothing down his perfectly-arranged hair so that it ended up in disarray. Fuck, he was cute. John rocked back on one foot and felt around his pockets for his cigarettes. Found them and pulled one out. He lit it in a fumbling way and sucked the smoke down almost desperately.

"Arcade. John," Cass said with mock-seriousness, and she pushed up off the doorway, uncrossing her arms, and began rooting around in the bar across the room for a bottle of something. "Don't mind me," she teased. "Just looking for a drink."

John looked at Arcade, trying to meet his eyes, but the doctor turned away, gathering up his jacket and carefully keeping his back turned to both of them. "I should be heading to bed anyway," Arcade said, his back still to John as he headed for the door.

"Alone?" Cass cracked.

"Just like you always do," came Arcade's voice from down the hall, and despite his annoyance, John stifled a laugh. Maybe there would be another time.

"Couldn't have waited another ten minutes?" John settled on the couch and Cass walked over, brandishing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"Only ten minutes, huh?" She poured neatly, not a drop missing the glass, and handed one to him. "A peace offering."

He took it gratefully, and tossed his cigarettes and lighter on the table. She took one and saluted him casually as she lit it.

"Alright, you're right, probably would take longer, but…" a shiver worked through him as he thought of the way Arcade had tasted, of mint and yucca. The monster in his pants twitched uncomfortably. "You're a goddamn harpy for coming in like that."

Cass shrugged. "Figure if we're all gonna die tomorrow, I'd rather live it up tonight at least," she picked up her glass. Despite himself, John smiled and raised his glass to hers and they clinked, the sound of it echoing through the otherwise empty room.

"I'll drink to that," he said, and so they did.

* * *

Arcade went in first, a good hour before the rest of them made their way down the elevator and across the street. Honey didn't know why she felt nervous - there was no good reason for it, she'd walked into plenty of fights and, aside from that one time, she'd always walked back out.

 _Nine lives, pussycat. By my count you're down at least two, which leaves you seven. I'd gamble on that._

She wiped her hands on her pants, then realized they weren't sweaty after all. Next to her, Cass wore a smile that bordered on a grimace in the brutal desert morning. John, on her other side, had a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth and one eye screwed up against the smoke. He'd helped her this morning, scrounged a hit of Med-X from the bottom of his bag, and now the headache that seemed to plague her every waking moment had rolled back a bit, like the shores of Lake Mead when they hadn't had a monsoon.

He saw her looking at him, assessing him, and flashed her a smile.

"Ready, sister?" She was. She nodded, and they crossed the street, casual except for the fact that they were the only people not scattering like drunken radroaches in the sunrise. The door swung open slowly, and they paused for a moment in the doorway, eyes adjusting in the dim light. Too soon - way too soon - a thug in a cheesy suit and a fedora approached.

"Hey. No one but Omertas are allowed to carry guns into Gomorrah! Check your weapons with me."

Honey cocked her head at him the same way that Rex always did. She looked up at him over the tops of her shades and batted her lashes slowly. Behind her she could hear Cass groan - her friend wanted nothing more than to shoot the shit out of this place, but Honey could see the gamblers on the casino floor, could hear the shouts of people partying in the back. The Omertas might all be a bunch of bullies, but there was no reason for the rest of these people to be caught in the crossfire.

At the same time, though, she could smell blood already and it was intoxicating. Tempting.

 _Go on, pussycat. Fuck 'em all up for the Ben-man. You know you want to._

"Sorry," she said, flicking her eyes up in the bouncer's suspicious dark ones, "No one parts me from my weapons." Lucky was in her hand in a moment, and before the bouncer could react, the shot was fired into his gut, one clean bullet to the belly, and then he was down and bleeding out at her feet, his mouth opening and closing with no sound.

At the other end of the room, another bouncer turned, too slow - he was caught in the face by a shotgun blast from John, who whooped gleefully as he fired again, this time into the guy's neck, just to be sure. There was a scream from the receptionist, who went down behind the desk in a puddle of blue fabric, and Honey took the room at a run, crouching down and crawling around the desk to talk to the frightened woman.

"Please - please don't kill me!" The woman cried. She was shaking, anxious, half-turned away from Honey and curled up into something of a ball. Honey leaned forward and put her left hand on the woman's shoulder, intending to comfort her.

"It's okay, we're going to -" was all she got out before the receptionist turned, her face livid and vengeful. A .357 magnum appeared in her hand; behind her, the floor safe stood open. Everything happened in slow motion: the receptionist fired her revolver. It barked a report at the same moment that Honey turned, crunching up against the side of the desk and aiming her pistol at the other woman. There was a familiar, searing pain in her left shoulder as she fired her own gun and the receptionist's head exploded in front of her, a fine mist of red blood spraying across Honey's arm and the side of the desk. She fired again as things began to speed up, and watched as the woman's body dropped before her, an inelegant heap on the shiny parquet.

Her shoulder aching, burning with the gunshot, Honey poked her head up over the desk. Cass and John had disappeared onto the casino floor, and she stood slowly, using the side of the desk for leverage. She could hear a couple screams and the sound of guns going off, and so she straightened, gripped Lucky more tightly in her right hand, and made her way into the casino.

Gamblers cowered under the gaming tables around her, some of them covering their heads with their hands. Three more Omertas lay dead or dying on the gambling floor, and as she made her way along the back wall, she saw Cass fire into the teller's room, dropping another. Ahead of her, John was making his way into Brimstone, where she could see a few more thugs getting their weapons ready.

Honey paused, shoving Lucky back into its holster and whipping her trail carbine off her back. Looking up at the Zoara Club, she could see doors opening and closing. She waited, crouched behind a blackjack table, until she saw two men walk, guns in hand, to the rail. They were Omertas; she peeked through the scope of her gun, and realized the one in the hat was Big Sal. Mercedes had had to have a "little chat" with him and Cachino once about her behavior in Brimstone. That "chat," if she recalled had left her with bruises all over her ass and one broken finger. Fucking pendejos.

That meant the guy with Big Sal was probably Nero, the head, the mythical boogeyman of the Omerta family. She let out a laugh and pressed the rifle butt into her good shoulder. This was too fucking easy. Nero pointed to something down on the casino floor - maybe the body of one of their goons - and Big Sal nodded, his face puckered.

Before they could turn and run down the stairs, she'd fired four shots, one into each of their eyes. Both men's bodies dropped, Big Sal's mouth open in an expression of surprise and confusion, bloody tears working their way down their cheeks. In a crouch, she made her way around the room towards the back of the building, to the club where Cass had followed John just moments before.

* * *

Maybe they'd put too much work into this bit of mayhem; maybe these assholes just weren't all they were cracked up to be. Either way, John had expected more resistance from the Omertas. There was a bodyguard at the back of the club who gave him a little trouble, but when he ran out of shells in his shotgun he let it drift in one hand and grabbed the combat knife out of his boot. It was easy enough to dodge behind a table while the guard wasted his ammunition and then go flying at him while he reloaded, slicing his stomach to ribbons and butting him in the nose with the back of the handle.

Cass was behind him, shouting at the bartender to get on the floor; from the whimpering he heard, it was clear the girl was having a hard time following orders. He was turning, ready to go help, when a shot whistled behind his ear.

 _That one nearly got me,_ he thought, dazed. He turned quickly, and found the muzzle of a revolver in his face. It was held by a short man in an Omerta suit, standing just a bit too close.

"The fuck do you think you're doin' here?" The guy with the gun asked. He was bald and his voice was tougher than his face, which looked like it wanted to collapse in on itself. A smile tried to make its way onto John's face and he bit his cheek to force it back, and there was the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

"Easy, brother," he said, hands raising slowly. He let the knife fall to the carpet. "What we're doin' here is we're havin' a little coup." Behind the little man he saw Honey make her way into the club, one shoulder dark with blood but still holding her rifle up, ready for a fight. Hell of a woman.

The man laughed. "That so?"

"Yeah, it is," Honey's voice behind the man made him turn his head, though he kept his gun on John. "I took out your bosses just now, so if you want to live through this, you might as well back down."

"Fuck you."

A sigh from the boss. "That's not very nice language, Cachino." A chill worked its way through John's chest and he took a small step to one side, just far enough that if the gun went off it would miss him.

 _He's a filthy monster,_ Joana's voice rang in his head as clearly as if she was standing next to him. When he closed his eyes he didn't see her; he saw Nicole, blue eyes wide as Vic undressed and smacked her for his friends.

 _Cachino. Vic. The Legion shitheads. All cut from the same fuckin' cloth._

The chill was more than that now; it was as if his hands and feet belonged to someone else. Before he could think about it too hard - after all, when had thinking ever gotten him anywhere? - John dropped and kicked one foot out into Cachino's knees. The other guy yelped, his finger squeezing the trigger, and a round fired into the ceiling behind him, barely missing his head as Cachino fell to the ground.

John could see Honey out of the corner of his eye; she approached slowly, straightening and stretching her neck. The trail carbine she let drop, pointing it at the floor, as she walked over, a curious expression on her face. Next to him, Cachino lay on his back, arms flailing; he'd dropped his gun in the scuffle and now it lay twenty feet away, under a table, useless to both of them. John had dropped his empty shotgun, but he didn't want it.

No, for what he had planned, he wanted his knife.

He landed on Cachino hard, popping him once in the jaw to keep the gangster off-kilter, and then sat on his chest, the suit's elbows pressed under John's knees. Cachino's eyes were wild, with too much white showing, and something in John seemed to break with pleasure at the sight of it.

"I hear you like to fuck up little girls, eh, Ca-chin-o?" He said it like that, drawing out each syllable of the man's name, and though the guy struggled under him, John felt a hot knot of rage in his chest grow. He grabbed Cachino's chin in one hand and what hair he had on his head in the other, and slammed the man's head into the floor. It was carpeted, but there was still a goggle-eyed expression as the back of his head smacked hard.

"I don't know -"

"Joana," John growled, his face low against the other man's, his lips pressed almost to Cachino's ear. Behind him, he heard Honey strapping her rifle on her back.

There was the smell of urine. The fucker _pissed_ himself.

"Alright, I'm sorry," Cachino's voice was high, pleading. John wondered if that was how Joana sounded when he fucked her with a pool cue, or the time he -

"Not as sorry as you're going to be." The smile that crossed John's face felt as ugly as it probably looked, but he didn't care. He might not have been able to make Vic pay, but he was going to make this son of a bitch suffer for every goddamn thing he ever did to a woman that she didn't want. "Honey," he didn't look, but he could feel her there, could almost feel the feral smile he knew she had. "Can I have my knife, please?"


	15. Here To Do Some Business With a Big Iron

Way Back Home: Here to Do Some Business With a Big Iron

Notes: Y'all shipping Johncade as bad as I am? Well, then, strap in because *tosses confetti in the air, speaks in Arcade voice* _Here we go!_

For real, though, I have _never_ written a m/m scene before (no problems with it except I don't have a Y chromosome so no real experience there) so here's hoping it's okay. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

"Do you think you could try _not_ getting shot one of these days?" There was the sound of metal-on-metal as Arcade fished the bullet out of her shoulder with fine-tipped tweezers and dropped the bloody slug into a steel bowl. Honey grunted at the discomfort - no, pain, it was _definitely_ pain - and then relaxed again as John's hand pressed her opposite shoulder, gently but firmly, into the back of the chair.

They were still in Brimstone, which had been cleared of bodies by the remaining Gomorrah employees. It turned out that aside from the Omertas - the remaining few of which had surrendered - and some sick fucker Cass had found upstairs with several women's mutilated bodies in his suite, Honey had been the only casualty of their little coup. Seemed about right, she thought sourly as she took another swig of the bartender had brought her.

When Arcade and Joana had shown up with the rest of the working girls, things had happened pretty quickly. Arcade had seen her bleeding and rushed to her, but she'd waved him off, telling him to see to Cachino, who was seeping blood onto the carpet where John had gelded him. She'd expected Arcade to be upset - he was, generally, a pacifist - but the look he gave Cachino as he applied a stimpack and a bandage said a lot. It had been a stern expression, one that clearly said if he didn't want to lose his balls, he should have behaved better. Honey had found herself stifling a giggle at it, despite the fact that laughing made her light-headed, despite the look of blatant concern John shot her as he urge her to a chair.

And now Arcade was making jokes at her and he and John were giving each other goo-goo eyes and Cass was making nice with the working girls, and for the first time in what felt like months, Honey felt like she deserved a break.

"I just wanted to thank you - all of you - for what you've done." Joana materialized in front of her, a thin, young girl with brown hair and haunted eyes. Honey dragged her focus to the matter at hand, and gave the woman a lazy salute with her right hand. Arcade didn't look up but instead pushed her gently back against the chair; the needle in his hand winked in and out of her flesh and she had to look away.

"It was no trouble," Honey said to Joana, faintly aware that she was slurring. Whatever, she'd earned it. "We just...we might want...Hoover Dam -"

 _Don't let a small success like this go to your head, pussycat. You might have Gomorrah, but there's still the Khans to deal with, rat-faced finks that they are._

 _Cállate. Leave me alone. No quiero hablar contigo; eres un fantasma, un hombre muerto. Un botella vacia._

 _You know I love it when you speak Spanish at me. Go on, tell me you love me again._

 _Andate a la cresta._

"Honey?"

She blinked, realizing John was snapping his fingers at her. She tilted her head up and gave him a sloppy smile, her right hand snaking up to boop him on the nose. "Hey, you!"

John's smile was patient, amused. He blinked at her a couple times, slow blinks with long, dark lashes, like a brahmin. A sexy, sweet brahmin, and she turned her head again to look at Arcade. Dear, wonderful Arcade, patching her up with a neat line of even dark stitches and a stimpack to help them knit themselves together.

"I think you're a little drunk," Arcade said, frowning at her. She nodded once, then again, and then she realized she couldn't stop.

"I think I am," she agreed. "Hey!" She grasped Arcade's face between her hands, squinting to make sure she was looking in his eyes. He dropped his hands and looked at her, surprised, his lips slightly parted because of the pressure of her hands on his cheeks. "You! I love you."

Behind her she could hear John chuckling, but that was good, because she had something to say to him, too. She looked up at him, dropping her hands from Arcade's face to look up at John. Her head dropped back and landed clumsily on the chair back. John's eyes were dark, twinkling, more permissive but no less kind than Arcade's.

"And you! You need to...you know. With him." She pointed aimlessly at Arcade and John laughed.

"Yes, you're definitely drunk." John's voice was half-laughing as he helped her up out of her chair. A moment later, she found Cass supporting her right side as the redhead booted John out of her way. Cass smelled like whiskey; whiskey was nice. Cass was nice. She nuzzled the other woman in the neck, and Cass let out a soft giggle. There were words exchanged between Cass and Arcade, but Honey didn't process them. Instead she focused on the pattern of the carpet, on the action of putting one foot in front of the other, on walking back across the street to the Lucky 38.

Inside was her bed, all soft white sheets and Rex snuggling up to her.

 _That doesn't count as a life, pussycat, just a big tickle. You ain't no Clyde; you handled that like a pro, and you're killin' it._

"You're right," she told him, ears not fully registering Cass asking her if she was okay. "Te amo, Benny."

* * *

"Well, that was...something." Arcade wasn't looking at him, but rather into his doctor's bag, as if something in there was truly fascinating. John had washed his hands and the creases seemed clean but somehow they still smelled of blood. When he'd seen Arcade and Cass come in with the prostitutes a couple hours ago, he'd been sitting at a table, Jet inhaler in hand, watching Cachino gasp and cry on the carpet.

Joana had taken one look at Cachino and smiled at him, a grim, bloodless thing that made him squirm a little. But then again, given what he'd done to her, losing his balls was probably the kindest thing that could have happened. She'd walked over to him, literally stepping over Cachino's prone body, and given John a warm hug, all soft skin and silky hair. She'd murmured a thank you in his ear and then begun rounding up the remaining prostitutes, the bartenders and dealers and few Omerta thugs that had put down their weapons rather than fight. The gamblers had taken off ages ago, and so Joana had held her first staff meeting in the bar, laying out her rules and plans for the casino in her soft voice.

"I may be running this joint," she'd purred, and all eyes had been on her; even Arcade would look up between digging in Honey's shoulder for the lost bullet. Only his boss had not been paying attention, lost as she was in a swirl of Med-X and whiskey. "I may be the head, but you all have a say in what happens here. Don't ever forget, we take care of our own. Even if sometimes we need a little outside help to do," and she'd met John's eyes over the crowd and winked.

 _Of the people, for the people. Who had said that? Abe Lincoln, wasn't it? One of those old-world lawyer-types, at any rate._

"I'm not in the habit of cutting guys' balls off," he said to Arcade, trying to meet the doctor's eyes. "But this seemed like a special circumstance." The guy was a doctor, not a merc, not Legion - John didn't think he'd understand, but when Arcade looked up and bright green eyes met his own, John saw the fire there.

"Some people," the doctor said as he zipped his bag shut, "are scumbags of such magnitude that this kind of justice doesn't bother me." Fuck, his eyes were so bright, as bright and clear as Honey's, and as serious as any he'd ever seen, not even muted by the thick glasses he wore.

 _This could get out of hand real fast._

 _Would that be such a bad thing?_

A hot shiver ran through John's body, just under his skin, a sensation that should have been cold but instead made him break out into a sweat. Arcade was watching him, a smirk on his lips. The guy was no fool. It was time to go on the offensive, he thought.

"What'd Cass say to you before they left?" He didn't need to ask; the woman hadn't bothered to lower her voice much, and he knew she'd told Arcade to just go and "fuck him senseless already." Still, he wanted to see if Arcade would _say_ it. It'd be delicious to see his lips form those words.

Of course, he didn't. He took a step back and colored pink and for a moment John wondered if he'd made a mistake by teasing him. And then -

 _Feels nice to have a hard piece of wood in my hands again._

 _Nah, he can take it._ John smiled, looping his arm through Arcade's as he had the night before, and the doctor scrambled to grab his bag as he was steered towards the entrance of the casino. Back outside, the afternoon was blistering, but nothing compared to the searing feeling of Arcade's chest against his arm where they were linked. The asphalt gleamed darkly at them, and they crossed the street quickly, racing up the roulette-wheel entrance and through the glass doors.

The whole way, all John could think about was the way Arcade's hip bumped his own, the way the taller man smelled in the breeze that blew from over the wall that surrounded the Strip. Inside the casino was dark, two securitrons standing sentinel between the entrance and the elevator. The air was so cool compared to the outside - _like a mausoleum, no John, why the fuck did you think that?_ \- and it hit them both like a wall as they walked in, and John found himself gasping, although if it was because of the air or the palpable sense of anticipation, he didn't know.

The elevator stood ahead and there was no way they were going to the Presidential suite. Instead they stepped in and rode up to the penthouse, and was he dragging Arcade or was it the other way around? Did it fucking matter?

No, it didn't.

The elevator dinged and they stepped out in time together. John turned, thinking he'd head to the bedroom, but there was a pale hand on his shoulder, pressing him into the cool stone wall, and he rocked backwards, his back against the wall and Arcade's mouth against his. The kiss was crushing; he couldn't breathe anything but Arcade, the smell of the pomade in his hair, the taste of his tongue like cactus flowers. The blonde man's body was pressed against him, his neck curled to angle his face closer to John's, and there was the roughness of his unshaven cheek and his glasses bumping along John's temple, and the dragging weight of Arcade's thighs against him. He was growing hard, he was breathless and hot and though he tried to push back the doctor's hands on his shoulder and his hip were too strong.

He came up for air when Arcade moved his lips lower, dragging them across John's jaw, and he felt himself moan; he couldn't hear anything but for the rushing sound of his own blood thumping in his ears. He felt Arcade grin against his neck, and then there were teeth, a gentle nip that made him gasp.

John twisted against Arcade but the doctor shoved him back against the wall again and slid closer to him; his body fit just right in the space between John's legs, his thighs against John's hips, and then Arcade gave a small roll into him and John thought he was going to die. His hands worked their way up under Arcade's coat, grasping at the heavy white fabric, and wrenched it from the other man's shoulders.

Arcade stepped back, releasing John for a moment to work the jacket off, and let it drop in a heap on the floor. John would have been surprised by the casual way the doctor let it go, but he was already on to the next task, to working those tiny tan shirt buttons open, slowly revealing the pale skin beneath. When Arcade leaned in again, his lips going for John's, he was ready for it; this time he leaned up, one hand sliding up to the back of Arcade's head, and he caught one ear in his teeth. He licked it tenderly, and there was a gasp from the blonde man, who sagged against him, pressing him back into the wall.

He traced his tongue up the ridge of Arcade's ear, and the man groaned into him. "Come on, baby," John growled, and at that he felt a twitch in Arcade's pants. "Oh you want me to _talk,_ do you?"

"Yes," it was equal parts word and breath, and he could feel himself responding to Arcade's need. His hand was still crushed between the two of them, but he could fumble just as badly with one hand as two, so he continued, popping one button off before he managed to get the next one free, and nibbling his way back down Arcade's ear.

"Should we find the bedroom?" Arcade pulled back from him and stared into his eyes, the doctor's eyes luminous over the dark rims of his glasses. A nod, and Arcade's cool hand in his own, and then his back was free of the wall as the doctor led him through a curtained-off doorway and into an opulent room with a view of the Mojave that stretched all the way into the horizon.

The bed was in front of them, facing the desert, but none of that mattered because Arcade was pressed up against him, his body deliciously firm inside his clothes, his dick hard and demanding against him. John moved his hand slowly down the length of Arcade's chest, his waist, around to his back, and grabbed him by the ass, moving him towards the bed firmly; the balance shifted and Arcade came willingly, biting his lip as John withdrew his hands and began to undo his own belt buckle.

One pair of pants hit the floor, and John pulled off his boots and stepped out of them; moments later, Arcade's pants and boots joined them, and, quivering, John pulled him onto the bed.

* * *

Honey sat in the lounge of the Presidential suite, a sheet of paper before her. On it, she'd written a to-do list of sorts.

 **White Glove Society**

 **Omertas**

 **Brotherhood of Steel**

 **Boomers**

 **Great Khans**

Two down, three left. And she was almost out of Med-X. A visit to Mick and Ralph's would be in order; there was no way she could ask the Followers for more. Even with her friendship with Arcade to lean on, there was no way she could continue to ask them for their precious supplies. Maybe Doc Mitchell would have some, or Chet. She could stop and see Doctor Usanagi on her way up towards Nellis -

 _You know pussycat, the answer to this is easy as one-two-three._

 _Fuck you, I'm not asking the Khans for chems._

 _Well, it's your funeral, baby. Again. At least this time I don't have to live with knowing I brought it on you._

 _But you did, you ass._

She leaned forward, head in her hands, the pulsing angry headache inside her broken skull taunting her with its malicious vibrations, each throb bringing her closer to the brink of desperation. She rubbed her temple with trembling fingers and thought again of the syringes of Med-X she had in the bottom of her back, resting on the floor of her bedroom. Her shoulder still ached a bit where the bullet had been, and how many times had she been shot now? There was the bullet Arcade had fished out of her in Gomorrah, the two from Benny, one of which had just grazed her and the other still embedded in her skull, and there was the time she'd been scraped by a couple wild rounds in the thigh as a child. Five? Six times, maybe?

 _How many lives is that, Benny?_

But for once he was silent.

* * *

Was there any better way to wake up than wrapped around Arcade and looking out over the desert as it glowed in the sunrise? Arcade's skin was warm and nearly as pale as the rumpled sheets, and everywhere they touched, John felt his skin burning. He thought briefly of his stock of chems, downstairs in the Presidential Suite, in his pack, and for a moment he considered going down to get a hit of Jet, a couple Mentats -

And then Arcade shifted against him, his white skin scorching and marking him, and John remembered the way they'd spent their night. There were other highs he could chase, and most of them were contained in his new lover.

He lifted the sheet a smidge and looked at Arcade's naked body. He wasn't a young boy, he wasn't a fighter; despite his lean build he was soft around the middle, with heavy thighs and thin calves, and every inch of him was absolutely perfect. And, judging by the way his cock grew hard in John's hand, it was clear he either pretending to sleep or very responsive first thing in the morning. John licked his lips and lowered them to Arcade's thigh, a teasing request, and Arcade shifted slightly - awake then.

 _So that's the game, eh?_ He could play that.

* * *

It was late morning when Arcade and John returned to the Presidential Suite; as impatient as Honey was, she found herself smiling when she saw them walk in. She'd never seen Arcade smile so broadly, nor had she expected to see him so relaxed. His eyelids looked heavy, and she wondered if they'd gotten any sleep at all. John, looking far too pleased with himself for anyone's good, headed straight to the kitchen to scrounge up breakfast, and when Arcade dropped onto the white couch beside her, she couldn't help but give him a smirk.

"Good night?"

Normally she would have expected him to give her a snide look or a sarcastic dodge, but instead he dropped his head into her lap, blonde waves in her hands, and the look he gave her was pure satisfaction.

"Guess so," she said softly, weaving her fingers between his hair, rubbing his scalp gently. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, and she was astonished by the change in his face. Arcade looked five years younger, or maybe ten, without that stern look she usually saw on him. _Lucky devil._

"Where did you find him?"

Honey laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." Arcade leaned his head into her hand, and she traced an aimless pattern across his scalp.

"Just wandering around the desert. Well, sort of. He was a caravan guard but they kicked him out. Apparently he brought some girl with him," she wrapped a curl around her finger, tugged lightly, and let it go free. "She took off with some of their stock and they left him. I needed help to get to Caesar and...well, he was _cheap._ "

A guffaw from her friend.

"You really like him."

"I do. He's smart and funny and brave and..." Arcade sighed, and she watched him drop off to sleep in her lap, his face at peace for the first time she could ever recall. Despite herself, she leaned into the back of the couch and found herself drifting off as well.

 _Why does anyone love another person? Some things you can't...I suppose you just can't explain._

* * *

When John peeked into Honey's room and saw her passed out with Arcade's head in her lap, he felt a weird thump in his chest. There was something about seeing the two of them together, so comfortable and safe, that made him a bit jealous, though he couldn't have explained why. He wondered if Arcade would ever - with him -

And then he remembered the way the man had looked, asleep against him, their legs entwined so he almost couldn't tell which limbs belonged to himself and which belonged to the other man, and a smile worked its way onto his face.

 _I think I love him._

He shook his head and walked back to the other bedroom to find his pack and the chems inside. Sitting on the spare bed was Cass, a glass of whiskey and a cigarette in one hand, flipping through a magazine. She looked up when he came in and gave him a knowing look.

"You guys were gone a while."

He flopped down on the other bed and rifled through his pack. His stash of Mentats was getting low - he'd have to stop at the Wrangler when they left and get more. He slipped three of them out of the battered tin and stuffed them in his cheek, then relaxed back against the pillows. He could still smell Arcade on his hands, on his face. A shudder worked through him at the thought of it and he grinned.

"We sure were," he said, turning to Cass as he put his arms behind his head. She smiled and tossed him the pack of cigarettes that sat on her bed. He sat up, catching them easily and then the lighter she gave him as well.

"Fun?"

He exhaled a plume of smoke. Arcade's hips, narrow with a light dusting of pale hair, twitching in the morning sun. Mmm.

"More than that, I think." Cass raised her eyebrows at that.

"I guess this makes up for interrupting you then, huh?"

John sighed and leaned back into the pillows. The Mentats were beginning to roll through him now, and he could feel everything coming into sharp relief. Yeah, it was more than a bit of fun, and he'd be a fool to think otherwise.

"I'd just started putting the moves on him. Not sure even last night would make up for that."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Cass swore, though she didn't look too pissed. "I'm never going to be able to live this down, am I?"

"Hey, not my fault you had to break it up." The anticipation had made it better, though he'd never tell her that. No need for her to have the satisfaction.

"Can't believe that was the first kiss," he voice was low; she was flipping through the magazine again, distracted. "Fuckin' amateurs."

It was late in the day when they finally left Freeside. John had stopped at the Wrangler to pick up a few things and managed to scrounge a couple of syringes of Med-X for Honey besides. When he saw the collection of chems John picked up, Arcade raised one eyebrow but said nothing, though he nodded with approval when Honey shoved the syringes in her bag for later.

 _I wonder if I'll ever be free of this,_ she wondered as they exited the Wrangler and headed to the North Gate. It would be nice to feel like she had before, to be free of both the pain and the exhaustion the medication left her with, but she didn't have much hope anymore.

The plan they'd decided on was to head to the New Vegas Clinic, check in for supplies with the doctor there, and then walk most of the night towards Nellis. Arcade knew of a safehouse near there where they could spend a few hours and rest in the worst of the day's heat, and then they could try to make contact with the Boomers.

"Are you sure?" He'd asked her when she'd given him the plan. "I hear no one makes it through the barrage."

"I don't see where we have much choice," she'd told him, and it was true. The Boomers would be really helpful with their heavy artillery, and she was loath to get too close to Caesar's soldiers without additional help. While having the backing of the White Gloves and Joana's crew in the Gomorrah would help after the battle - if they survived - neither group was in much of a position to offer fighters. But the Boomers and their firepower - well, she couldn't go wrong there.

Unless, of course, they got blown up trying to make contact. Like everything else though, it was risk she couldn't see a way around. So the four of them followed the map on her Pip-Boy, going east and a bit north to the clinic, the setting sun blazing orange behind them and faint clouds like purple fingers in the sky.


	16. Where Have You Been All My Life?

Way Back Home: Where Have You Been All My Life?

Notes: So New Vegas doesn't have any hospitals. Weird, huh?

* * *

Unfortunately, the news from Doctor Usanagi was not good. It turned out she would sell Honey a couple syringes of Med-X, but her own supply was running low and she said she "couldn't, in good conscience, sell it all" to them. Honey's shoulders had sagged at that, but her voice had remained gracious; John had wanted nothing more than to punch out the doctor's hired guns and fuck the clinic up, taking whatever they needed, but of course he couldn't do that. Of course he _wouldn't_ do that - he just hated to see the way his boss rubbed her temple as they walked, or the way she squinted in the bright sunset.

He felt like he'd do almost anything to take that away from her.

The one thing Doctor Usanagi had told them that hadn't made John want to wring her little neck was that there was a research hospital up I-15, north of Nellis Air Force Base. Old-world research, so who the hell knew what that meant, but there might be all kinds of stuff there. Apparently it was so close to the base that the Boomer' artillery kept anyone from even trying to get close to the hospital. At this, Honey had set her chin in a look that John was quickly learning meant she'd identified a challenge and planned to meet it.

Some days he wondered what her real game plan was.

They followed the interstate north and then east until it was so dark they couldn't see to put their feet ahead of them, and still Honey urged them on. He found himself flagging despite the little pick-me-up he'd snorted earlier; his mood seemed to lurch between an itchy sort of grumpiness at the world around them and tender fatalistic sentimentality. Maybe it was the chems; maybe he was just too tired. He wasn't the only one - Arcade looked as if he wanted to drop, and Cass was muttering things under her breath that John was fairly certain her parents hadn't taught her. They crested a ridge and there, before them, stood a man in a hat.

John pulled his shotgun free before they got too close; you could never be too safe in the wasteland. People'd blow your head off for anything, and just because he only saw one guy didn't mean he was alone. The man smiled as they approached, and John felt a prickle of approval down his spine as he saw Cass ready her own weapon, though Honey stepped forward with the same easy smile she gave Legionaries, the flirtatious smirk that made every man she used it on melt.

This time was no exception. The man put one hand out towards them, a cautious gesture, and a smile of his own flitted across his face. John stopped, rocking back on his heel.

"Whoa there, pal. You better slow down, or you'll get blown up like the rest of the idiots who thought they'd scavenge in Boomer territory." Behind him, as if on cue, there was the not-so distant sound of something exploding; in the quiet that followed the blast he could hear what sounded like a whole house collapsing. Maybe even something bigger than a house. The man nodded as if the sounds had proven his point. Still...John could smell a scam here, though he couldn't figure out exactly what it was.

"You've got my attention," Honey said, her voice soft but clear. Velvety, warm.

"Now," the man continued, and John felt that tingle he always got at the start of a con. He was right; somehow this guy was shady. "Might I be able to interest you in some information? It'll cost you," the guy had the nerve to look apologetic here. "But it's well worth the investment."

Honey cocked her head down and looked at him over the tops of her sunglasses. John remembered the last time he'd seen her look like this: Gomorrah. That tingle again, in the base of his spine and down his arms, so intense he felt his fingers twitch where they held the shotgun. Yep, things were about to get interesting. A small smile fought its way onto his face.

"Let me put it this way," Honey purred. "You can tell me, or you can tell the underside of my boot."

He would've given her anything in the world after the way she delivered the threat, the menace of her words laced with sugar. Next to him, John heard Arcade cough to cover a guffaw; he felt a flash of irritation at that, but the man before them looked around their party and evidently decided that they meant business.

The guy took a step back, hands out. "Whoa, simmer down, I'll tell you. I'm a gambler and a scavenger. I've made some cash from gambling and some cash from...reclaiming goods that are no longer being used. Now - do you want my help or not?"

Honey glanced back at the group, eyeing each of them one by one, and apparently made something of a decision, because she nodded and turned back to him. "I do. Tell me how to get to the gate."

There was a bet to be made, and the guy - George, he said his name was - said he knew the best way to make it to the gate. If they made it back, he'd double their money, but with that calculated glint in her eye, Honey managed to talk him into tripling it. On his other side, John could see Cass glancing around, her face nervous as she heard the shelling start again. He took a step to the left and bumped her gently with his elbow, and she almost jumped out of her skin.

Honey took the wager, as John had known she would; it was clear gambling was in her blood, that she couldn't help but take the chance when it was offered. Like a high she couldn't stop herself from chasing. She gave George a sack full of caps and he replied with a grin that there was no way she had given him enough to cover the whole group.

"That's because I'll be going alone," she said, with that easy smile, and John's stomach dropped out.

* * *

"No, absolutely not. It's too dangerous for you to go alone. What if you don't make it? Or what if you do, and they kill you when you get to the gate?"

They were back at a shack they'd passed down the road, close enough to Nellis to hear the shelling but far away enough that the walls didn't vibrate with each detonation. Despite the way the sound filled her with terror and dread, Honey didn't blink. She kept her face still as she looked at the three of them, at their dear faces that wanted so badly to help.

 _Caring's a liability, pussycat, you know that. Besides, you know it'd be smarter to bring them with you; more targets mean fewer on your own back._

 _You disgust me._

 _You love me._

"If you think I'm going to just fuck off and sit here while you maybe get killed, you're the biggest goddamn shithead I've ever met," Cass groused, sitting back in her chair with her arms folded over her chest. Honey fought a smile at her friend; showing her amusement would weaken her position, and she was right, she knew she was right. She was the one who needed to go. She was the one who needed the Boomers' help, and the thought of anyone else getting hurt because of Benny's fucking agenda made her sick.

 _I'm the one who loves you, you ass, so I'm the one who goes._

 _Stupid move, baby. I thought you had more jets than that._

 _Fuck off._

 _If you pull this off, pussycat, I'll buy you the biggest goddamn brahmin dinner you've ever seen, and a bathtub full of whiskey._

"I need you guys to keep going, head up to the research hospital Doctor Usanagi mentioned," Honey said, shaking her head to try to free herself from Benny's voice. "See about finding some Med-X, or even things we can bring back and trade. Anything useful - supplies, chems, whatever you guys find that might be useful. You might even find that doohickey you're always looking for, Arcade."

The doctor brightened at the thought of finally getting his hands on the autoclave he'd been going on about for months. She could see he was getting ready to explain again what it was and what it was used for, but she put her hand up to stop him and shook her head, her smile breaking through despite herself.

"I could really use that," the doctor said thoughtfully, and John turned to him, the cigarette in his hand creating a fog between them in the dim lantern light of the shack.

"You're just gonna let her go off on her own so you can get some fuckin' contraption you've been gettin' along fine without all this time?" His tone was fiery and for a moment Honey was worried and, somehow, comforted. It was strange having someone so protective of her.

"She's going to go whatever you say," Arcade's voice was mild; it was the sound of someone who knows there's nothing they can do to prevent a coming disaster, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding; there was more than one way to show you care about someone, as Arcade's quiet acceptance of her proved. Cass and John both turned their angry faces to Arcade, glaring in unison as if they could cause him to burst into flame with only the power of their eyes. Arcade shrugged, giving the two of them a resigned look; Honey snaked her hand across the table to give his a small squeeze, and he shot her a smile that didn't make its way to his eyes.

"He's right." Cass's shoulders sagged and the cant of her eyes was mutinous. She took a long drink of whiskey straight from the bottle, and while Honey would have expected John to give her a hand or even a nod of approval, his eyes didn't leave her.

"I don't like it," her new friend said, his voice a quiet growl that sent a shiver down her spine. Honey couldn't remember, but she didn't think she'd ever had anyone actually care about her like that before.

 _He really wants me to be safe._

 _Then he's a liability, pussycat._

 _I wanted you to be safe._

 _Exactly. You got it in one._

"You need to go to the hospital," she said, surprised that her voice held so steady. On her right, Arcade twitched slightly as he gave her hand a small squeeze back, and that seemed to give her the strength to continue. "Leave when I do and let me draw their fire. If we go in the dark it should work."

"We should wait for tomorrow night," Arcade said, giving her hand another small squeeze despite the dirty look John shot him. How could she explain to him the desperate terror that gripped her at the thought of waiting another twenty-four hours, the idea that if they waited she might never go? It unspooled in her like a thread, a hateful string that tugged her on a long march behind Caesar's troops, the ragged roughspun tunic scratching her thighs in the desert heat.

If she waited, she would never go. She would find a syringe of Med-X - or eight, more like eight these days - and put herself down the hole so deep she could never climb out.

It was now or never, and she was fast enough to make it, or had been once. She hoped.

"We go tonight," she said, standing and heading to the door. Her pack sat next to it, tattered brown straps holding the whole thing together. She shouldered it and looked back at the three of them staring at her with slack jaws. After a moment, Arcade stood, the feet of his chair scraping against the floor; then Cass and John joined him and the three of them followed her out in the black Mojave night.

* * *

Letting her go off alone still seemed wrong, foolish. But John had seen that look in her eyes before, and he was starting to figure out what it meant: she was going to get what she wanted and the world could go fuck itself. Weirdly enough, it seemed to work out for her more often than not.

Now when he looked back at the gate, he saw her standing just inside it, chatting easily with a man in a leather jacket while a woman holding a Fat Man looked on. He stood for too long, watching and wondering as she laughed and shook her shiny hair, and then - miracle of miracles - the gate guard stepped aside and the woman with the mini nuke launcher started leading Honey away from the gate. The gate guard scanned the area, the broken and burning buildings lit by turning spot lights, and for a moment John thought he caught his eye, but then the man looked on, over the ridge, and settled the missile launcher on his shoulder. Arcade tugged his hand, and John followed him, eyes blind from the spotlight, towards a massive parking lot dotted with rusted-out old cars and an even bigger building behind it.

He didn't much like the idea of going into the hospital at night without any idea of what they were getting themselves into; anything could be lurking in there, waiting to kill them. It turned out neither did Arcade or Cass, and the three of them discovered a group of cars that had been pulled into a circle, their flat tires torn and tattered where the vehicles had been dragged across the broken asphalt. In the center were the remains of a cookfire and a stack of wood, a small bench, and even a pot with a stand to put over the flame. Before long, they'd laid out bedrolls and John found himself drifting off to sleep, his arm wrapped around Arcade's middle and face buried in the other man's neck, Cass keeping an eye on the horizon.

When the sun rose, they'd only had a few hours' sleep, but still it was better than nothing. John had traded out with Cass after a couple hours and taken some Psycho and Buffout as he watched the sun come up in an effort to keep himself moving through the whole next day. Behind them he could hear the occasional sound of a mortar hitting, the boom of an explosion, the ground vibrating. Between the chems and the sounds of bombardment he was on edge, jittery. Anxiety seemed to chase his thoughts in a way he rarely experienced.

Arcade made coffee, heating water in the large pot left at the campsite and pouring it through ground beans held in a heavy piece of cloth. Cass dropped a healthy dollop of whiskey in hers and offered the bottle to the two of them; Arcade shook his head but John nodded, taking a long sip from his mug as the sun came up over the rocky outcropping behind them.

They drank the bad coffee, and passed around a rusted tin of Cram and a single fork to share though no one seemed to want to eat much. John's thoughts kept drifting back to Honey, to wonder if she was okay with the crazies and their blasted weaponry and not murdered in some hole in the ground, and he doubted the other two could think of much else. A few dozen yards away, the hospital loomed darkly, casting shadows where the sun came up steadily behind it. The light shimmered through the few unbroken car windows in the lot, rainbow prisms dancing across the ground as he and Cass shared a cigarette and then, when they could put it off no longer, the three of them packed up their bags and began the short walk to the building's large glass entrance.

* * *

It was late in the day before Honey finished up taking out the ants. Pearl, the Boomers' Elder, had given her a place to spend the night and in the morning, after she'd washed up and given herself a dose of Med-X to get straight, they'd had a chat about why she'd come. It seemed the old woman wanted to open the tribe up to the outside world and - from the look in her eye - had thought Honey could make that happen. Somehow.

No pressure. She just had to convince a group of xenophobes with nukes that the rest of the wasteland wasn't so bad. Easy-peasy.

In the back of her head, she could hear Benny laughing.

So she'd gone to meet Raquel, and somehow she'd had a few missiles in her bag that made the woman quirk one corner of her mouth in a pale imitation of a smile. She'd gone to the museum and the kid there had told her about their history, leaving Vault 34 and their dream of taking to the sky. After, she'd swung by the clinic hoping to score some medical chems but the doc there refused to sell to her, and no wonder with all the injuries he was facing. Maybe it was all the time she'd spent with the Followers, but it seemed something had stuck - when Argyll had told her their ailments, she'd actually been able to come up with a few solutions he'd missed and when she left he'd given her a cautious nod that, from anyone else, might have been a hug.

There was a visit to the hangars, where she listened to the young guy there wax poetic about some beautiful girl he'd seen in the distance - and wasn't love always perfect when you didn't have to live with your amor? The older guy, Loyal, said he might have something for her later but the cant of his eyes made it clear that he didn't yet trust her.

And so she'd made her way to the array, to fix the solar panels in the blazing afternoon sun - but how would she do it after dark? - and then descended below, where ants the size of small cars blazed flames at her. She took her time, weaving between the mounds and wreckage below, the version of Benny that lived in her head teasing her, taunting her with the foolishness of it all.

 _You coulda just left 'em alone, pussycat. No one woulda thought less of you._

 _You brought me into this, cabron. What other choice did I have?_

 _You got a brass set, baby, that's all I'm sayin'._

When at last the sounds of the giant beasts were quiet around her, she was able to hit the switches one at a time. There was a loud hum and the vibration of power returning made the building shake slightly. She looked around; the lights were brighter now that the system had come off emergency power, and she could see a bit of yellowish ant gunk on one of her shoulders. Ugh. Hopefully Pearl would let her take a shower.

Honey made her way back upstairs, unearthing a grenade launcher as she went. This she stuffed in her pack, hoping it was both working and that no one would miss it. Carved into the heavy wooden stock in crooked letters was "Thump-Thump," and she felt her blood run a little hot as she imagined the destruction it might cause.

* * *

"Well, this is _interesting._ " Arcade's voice echoed through the hall, reverberating off the peeling white and green linoleum floor and into the next room, where John and Cass sat, passing a bottle of whiskey. Two decks of mismatched cards sat between them; Cass had been trying to teach him Caravan, which had resulted mostly in a bad headache.

He gave Cass a falsely apologetic smile and leaned back in the overstuffed chair she'd dragged in to the office where they sat and lit a cigarette as he left.

John stretched as he walked into the office where Arcade had stationed himself at a functioning terminal. The glass on the office door read director something-or-other in peeling gray letters, and it was in there that his lover had spent the last day and a half, poring over the computerized records in the system.

The whole place just felt _wrong._ Where most places in the wasteland had something nasty waiting within - ferals, super mutants, even radroaches - inside was nothing but skeletons and sterile-looking lab after lab. The paper records were no longer legible, rotted away almost to nothing after two hundred years of dry rot and age, but when Arcade had discovered the power still running, he'd let out a low whistle and made his way to the top floor to search for the head honcho's office. With nothing so promising to distract themselves, John and Cass had barricaded the doors - though there didn't seem to be much point, really - and begun drinking in earnest. When John had pulled out a little pink inhaler earlier that morning, Cass had even accepted a hit of Jet in an effort to stave off her boredom.

"What'd you find?" He came around the corner to find Arcade's usually tidy hair mussed from running his hand through it. Had the man slept? He didn't think so. He looked wired, eyes focused too sharply behind his glasses, and John felt a twinge of something in his chest. Love? Worry? He didn't know what it was, but he knew he wanted the doctor to take better care of himself.

"It looks like one of the things they were working on was brain trauma," Arcade said, nearly tripping over his words in an effort to get them out. "They wanted to see...hmm…"

"Wanted to see what?" This was dull, tedious. He wanted so badly to shake Arcade and get him to get to the point.

"I'm not sure. Let me see…"

John put his hands on Arcade's broad shoulders and, sure enough, the other man was so tense it was a miracle he hadn't popped like an overtaxed spring. He ground one thumb into Arcade's shoulder blade and felt a bit of the pressure evaporate, an audible sigh exhaling from him.

"That feels nice." Arcade leaned his head back, eyes closed for the first time in what was likely thirty-six hours as he leaned into John's hands.

"Maybe you should take a break."

"Mmm, you're probably right. The words _are_ starting to run together."

John let his hands slip lower, to massage the strained muscles in Arcade's lower back, then worked his way down to the slim hips under the doctor's coat. Arcade let out a small grunt of pleasure, then stood abruptly. The office chair rolled away and bumped into a bookshelf across the room.

"Let's go," he said, taking one of John's hands in his own. There was a lounge a few doors down, with a couple couches that looked wasteland comfortable, with barely rotten cushions and springs that maybe weren't yet poking through the fabric. They might be a on a mission, but neither of them would be any use to anyone if they were overtired and drained.

"Come on," Arcade's voice was stiff with exhaustion. "Before I change my mind."

* * *

Honey was rewarded with a hint of a smile from Loyal when she let him know the solar panels had all been repaired, and then Pearl let her take a shower in her own barracks. She turned the hot tap as far as it would go and stood under the scalding stream as long as she dared. When she finally stepped out, the bathroom was so steamy she could barely see the toilet and her skin was bright pink.

When she'd dressed and given herself a half-sized dose of Med-X (and swallowing hard when she realized just how low her supply had gotten), Honey came out of the bathroom to find Pearl waiting. The Elder's weathered face was creased into a warm smile, the first one she'd seen since she arrived here, and more than anything that made Honey start to relax.

"Well, child, don't you just clean up so nice?" Pearl gestured to the door and Honey followed, rolling her shoulders in her last clean shirt, a worn flannel with a bright spot on one side where a pocket had ripped off. She looked at herself and wondered if Pearl was joking. She certainly didn't think she looked like anything special, with the track marks on her arm and the giant scar tracking across her temple and into her hair, but hey, maybe the old lady's eyes were failing.

She followed Pearl to the mess hall, where the cook was serving up fresh vegetables sauteed in oil with spicy peppers and - _oh Jesuchristo_ \- fresh, hot flour tortillas. Her mouth watering, Honey followed the Elder and picked up a tray; the portion she was served was heaping, and when she saw the beans and rice she was tempted to drop the tray and pinch herself to see if she was still alive. Perhaps she'd died and gone to heaven - and this heaven even had a cold beer for her to drink with her dinner, a light and frothy cerveza unlike anything she'd had in years.

The food was spicy and so flavorful that Honey nearly forgot where she was and fell into it with gusto, only realizing how many people in the vast hall were watching her when she was nearly finished with her burrito and picking a shred of fresh cilantro from between her teeth with a wooden spear. That was when Loyal came and sat down next to Pearl, his chipped red tray lined up crookedly next to the Elder's, and Honey realized that nearly half the mess hall had been watching her. She set the toothpick down and looked into Pearl's warm eyes, embarrassed at the attention.

Loyal took a swig of his own beer and Pearl gave him a gentle smile. The medals on their chests glinted in the light.

"I think it's time," the Elder said. Loyal gave a nod.

"Since she says it," Loyal said, scooping a forkful of rice and beans into his mouth. "It's time to talk about the lady in the water."

"Lady in the water?" Honey took a sip of her own beer, trying to ignore the prickle of skin on the back of her neck, the knowledge that she was being watched by almost the whole hall. Around them, the mess had gone silent; there was no chatter, no clink of silverware against dishes.

"A long time ago, long before the war that killed just about everything that ever lived, a bomber crashed not far from here. It was a flying contraption that could drop explosives on anything it flew over."

 _The mural; a plane, dropping fire from the sky._ There was the feeling of something sliding into place and with it, a smile made its way onto her face. Honey took another sip of her beer.

"This bomber crashed down in Lake Mead, pretty damn near intact. When we got to Nellis, see, I found this article in a magazine about it."

 _This is cray-cray, babydoll. You sure you wanta get tangled up in this mess?_

The thought of the Legion on fire made the smile etch more deeply into her cheeks. _Yeah, I think I do._

 _Guess I really did scramble your egg._

 _Yeah, I think you did._

Loyal explained how it would work with only a few interjections from Pearl but Honey's mind was already made up. The Boomers' dream of flying and raining terror and flame down on everyone who opposed them was of no interest to her - but harnessing that to burn the Legion to the goddamn ground was. She let them spin their story and sat back - Jack, Loyal's assistant, came by with another round of beers, but otherwise the room around them was silent, still. The tribe held their breaths collectively as Loyal finished and for a moment she wanted to leave them all hanging, just to see how long they would all wait.

"Of course I'll do it," she said, and somewhere in the back of the room a whoop came out, rippling through the crowd and building with each new voice that joined in. The crowd that had been still began howling, dancing, cheering - men and women hugged, children hollered their excitement, and Honey winced, smiling as she clapped her hands over her ears at the sudden noise.

"We're going to fly -"

"I can't believe - the outsider is going to do it!"

When she met Pearl's eyes, Honey could see a peaceful satisfaction there. Loyal was only slightly more effusive, telling her to meet him the next morning because he had something that might make the assignment a bit easier, but it was Pearl whose face she focused on. It was Pearl who could seal the deal for her.

"I'm going to need your help in return," she said as they left the mess hall a bit later. Pearl nodded, smiled in her enigmatic way.

"Of course you will," the woman took her hand and patted it. Pearl's hand was frail, the skin as thin as parchment paper, with thick blue veins looping through the bone and muscle.

"It's not that I don't want to help, it's just I -"

"There's no need to explain yourself, child. If you get us that bomber, no one here will deny you anything."

* * *

When Arcade had finally drifted off to sleep, John found he couldn't rest. The chems he'd been hitting during Arcade's information bender kept him anxious, high-strung and jittery inside his skin, as if he'd drunk too much coffee. He tried to lie still as long as he could, his fingers working through Arcade's pale hair in a pattern, but it was too hard to rest with his heart hammering away in his chest as if it were trying to break free. Instead he waited until Arcade was well and truly resting and worked his way out from under the hundred and eighty pounds of snoring blonde doctor that slept half atop him. He went slowly, sliding out one leg, then the other, and worked his hips free bit by bit.

Finally, after what felt like a week of cautious negotiation, John found himself escaped from the couch. First things first - he needed to take something to calm himself down. Psycho was not his chem of choice, and the uneasy pounding of his blood in his veins was definitely the main reason.

Cass was asleep as well in another office; he retrieved his pack and made his way to the director's office. In the cracked leather desk chair, he sorted through his supplies and found some Med-X and a box of Mentats. He really should save the Med-X for Honey, he thought, but then again -

No, that would be wrong. He just wanted to calm down; she needed it just to stay straight.

 _You're better than that, John._ He slid the syringe in its pristine plastic wrap back into his bag, down to the bottom. It came back out with a flask of tequila Honey had made him. With a grimace, he swallowed three Mentats with a swig of homebrew, then another to wash the chalky taste of the tablets from his mouth. A third one to calm him, and then he put the flask away.

 _I wonder what's in that terminal that's so fascinating._

John slid the wheeled chair over to the desk and flicked the monitor on. A series of files outlined in green text popped up on the screen, all arranged by case number and date. A clinical trial on brain trauma was the first one he saw - that must have been what Arcade was talking about - then a radiation therapy medication, then a potential cure for diabetes. He kept scrolling down until he came across what he was looking for: pain management.

The files themselves were dry, even dull, but the information he was able to glean was interesting enough, once he got past the dreary way the facts were written. One chemical in particular caught his eye - potential for cross-marketing of one of their radiation therapies, tentatively named Rad-Safe! Apparently the drug cured radiation poisoning with the side effect of killing over eighty-five percent of those who were treated with it. Before death, the subjects experienced a blissful euphoria, the files said, unlike anything they'd seen with any other treatment.

 _Any chance of it being used as a painkiller?_

 _Well, it does kill most everyone who takes it. And those who live...well, it's not pretty. All subjects that survived displayed symptoms of advanced radiation disease._

So they'd stopped human trials and gone back to the drawing board. R&D had produced a revised version of the drug for the next round of trials, but the bombs had fallen before they'd gotten anywhere.

 _Blissful euphoria._ He felt a prickling in his toes at the thought of it. Hell, they'd have had him at half that - blissful or euphoria both would've been enough to get him interested.

 _But there's an eighty-five percent chance of dying._ That definitely put a damper on things.

 _Well, it wouldn't hurt to see what else these guys were cooking up._

John scrolled through the rest of the files absently, focusing briefly on a painkiller that worked similar to Med-X - sounded like it was ready for shipment, and there would hopefully be cases of it down in the warehouse - and before long he found his heart had slowed, its painful rhythm more placid. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as a pillow, then sat up with a start.

If he was going to pass out, shouldn't he do that in the other room, in the lounge with Arcade, his arms around the doctor and his face in a stubbly neck? There was an intense yearning that coursed through him at the thought of it, and before he could stop to question it too much, John stood, kicking the chair behind him, and headed down the hall to bed.

There'd be time to explore the warehouse tomorrow.


	17. Like The Fella Said

Way Back Home: Like The Fella Said

Notes: Warning for explicit content right outta the gate. Let's have nice things, right? Especially as we enter Act II of our little tale.

Recommended listening: "Nunca Mas" by La Santa Cecilia. You will not be disappointed.

* * *

John and Arcade lay together, sticky and satisfied and floating, tangled in each other's limbs, and he listened to Cass's quiet, restless footsteps come closer and then retreat. There was the sound of fumbling paper and the tell-tale flick of a lighter. The thought of her out there smoking made him yearn for a cigarette, but he was too comfortable wrapped around Arcade to reach for them and anyway he knew that if he did the doctor would get up and head back to the director's office, shaking his head and fleeing the smoke.

After-sex cigarettes were a vice he might have to give up for this man, he thought as he threaded his fingers through Arcade's blonde curls. _It might be hard, but I think I can do it._

 _The things I'll do for love._

 _Love?_

"Penny for your thoughts?" Arcade turned his head to rest his chin on John's shoulder at the sound of his voice, and John felt his heart break in his chest. Well shit. He'd never planned on something like this happening when he left the Commonwealth.

"You're right," the doctor said with a small laugh as he slowly sat up. John didn't want the moment to end; it was too easy to forget everything else when they lay somewhere together sweaty and slippery and he didn't know if he could handle it if Arcade took another trip down that long hall. He didn't know how many more games of Caravan he could lose to Cass before he lost it.

"I was?" John grabbed Arcade's hand and pulled him back down.

"I _did_ need that." Arcade leaned forward, his body sliding across John's, and his tongue was in his mouth and oh, fuck, he could feel himself rising already. He gave his hips an experimental rolls and Arcade moaned into his mouth before laughing a little and sitting up to look for his glasses.

The moment was ending, and he couldn't stop it; the doctor found his glasses and slid them on, then began scouting around the floor for his discarded clothes. In the hall John could hear Cass mumbling to herself.

With everything already ruined - too soon, too soon - John bent over the edge of the couch and scrounged the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The shirt he let drop back to the floor as he pulled one and lit it, breathing the smoke in and then forcing it back out. Arcade turned from pulling his jacket on and gave him a look.

"Those things'll kill you, you know."

John laughed and Arcade's expression softened. "Never heard that one before."

Arcade's rolled his eyes. "I just...I'd like you to be around awhile."

John sat up, stretched his naked body, and fixed Arcade with a glare, then dropped one eyelid into a slow, lascivious wink. "Don't worry about me, buddy. I'm gonna live forever."

It didn't have the reaction he'd expected, though. Arcade just looked thoughtful and a little exasperated, though he still leaned in to give him one last, promising kiss, despite the smoke that swirled around them.

"Promise?" He might have been annoyed but there was still something there.

"Promise," John said, and he meant it.

Arcade stood back up, patting the pockets of his coat, and then opened the door to head back to the director's office. John leaned back to rest his head against the armrest of the couch, crossing his ankles and staring at the ceiling. His skin cooled in the breeze from the open doorway and he'd never drifted off when he heard a rustle.

"Shit, it smells like sex in h- Oh. That's why." When he opened his eyes, Cass stood in the doorway, a smirk on her face as she looked at him. He glanced down at himself, remembering then that he was still naked, and threw her own expression back at her.

"Howdy," he said lazily.

"Well. I see Arcade's a lucky man," she said, sauntering into the room and plopping down on the couch across from him. John let out a snicker and sat up, crushing what remained of his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table beside him.

"Thanks for the compliment, sister," he grinned cheekily as he rummaged around on the floor for his clothes. Arcade had ripped nearly half the buttons off his shirt, so he left it where it lay and pulled a fresh one out of his pack. One nice thing you could say about the apocalypse, even two hundred years on you didn't have to do laundry much if you didn't want to. With the number of people left versus the amount of dry goods, there was always a clean shirt to be had, even if it was tattered with age and dry-rot.

Cass didn't look away as he dressed, and he wouldn't lie; he gave her a bit of a show as he pulled on his pants, socks, boots, and buttoned up the fresh shirt. When he'd finished he pulled an inhaler out of his pack and offered it to her. She shook her head.

"I really shouldn't," she told him. "I've got a heart condition. Besides -" she wrinkled her nose a little. "I'm not crazy about how people ask when they're on it."

John shrugged, then remembered something. "But you did yesterday."

"Yeah, well, that's how fuckin' _bored_ I was."

He nodded, put the inhaler in his mouth, and took a long puff. He took another for good measure, then stuffed it away. "You want to do something more interesting?"

She perked up, eyebrows raising almost to her hairline.

"What'd you have in mind?"

* * *

With the Boomers' blessing and a promise not to fire on her or her posse - and how Pearl had chuckled at that - Honey had left Nellis and headed north another couple miles before veering off the interstate to the massive hospital that waited up the road. She turned the radio on her Pip-Boy down and watched the cazadors over the next ridge buzzing about, orange wings glinting in the sun. When she was sure it was safe, she made her way up the entrance road and through the parking lot, threading between the skeletons of burned cars and into the cool air of the main building.

There were the expected number of skeletons inside, but otherwise things seemed quiet enough. No fresh blood anywhere, no more recent dead bodies. But then again, the shelling out near Nellis had started up again, so she supposed she shouldn't have been surprised; this place was protected by her new friends and their obsession with firing on anyone who so much as looked in their direction.

Which meant that unless this place was looted early on, everything here had to have been safe as houses for at least a generation or maybe even two. Although if what Pete had told her was true, probably even longer than that given the radiation in the area.

Honey made her way slowly through the building, half-dancing along to the music that came softly from the Pip-Boy's speaker, trying to distract herself from the unnatural quiet of the building, from the thoughts of the dead and dying that had populated this place. The song cut out somewhere on the third floor, and Mr. New Vegas came on with some news. "Gomorrah is under new management after the deaths of Omerta bosses Nero and Big Sal. The casino's new manager spoke to reporters. 'We're going to do all we can to make your visit to our little place even _more_ special,'" Joana purred, and Honey gave the radio a bemused expression. There was a bit more chatter as she climbed the stairs to the top story, and then the music came back on.

"Who's there?" Arcade's voice came from one end of the hall, and Honey followed it.

"It's me," she called, and there was a grumble and the sound of wheels rolling across linoleum.

"Who's me?" Arcade sounded more than little grumpy, though closer. She passed one office, then a lab, a lounge, another office...and finally came to the end of the hall where a large office opened on the left. Inside sat Arcade, frowning distractedly at the terminal before him. The room itself was in surprisingly good shape - most things were just as they must have been left on October 23 more than two hundred years ago, though a diploma hung crookedly on the wall.

"You finding anything good?" She sank into one of the armchairs across the desk from him, her fingers working their way under the bandana she'd tied around her head to massage the scar there.

"I actually...might be." He glanced back up at her, taking in her appearance quickly before looking back at the screen. "Looks like they just green-lit a new pain killer than worked like Med-X but should be easier on the liver."

"That sounds good," she said casually, cracking a can of water and taking a sip. It was warm from her jaunt in the sun, and she rolled it around in her mouth, trying not to get her hopes up at the idea of a painkiller that might actually help without causing her more harm somewhere else. Sometimes she wondered what the long-term effect of so much Med-X might be, then wanted to cry. It wasn't what she'd wanted for herself, to be dependent on something like this.

Arcade made a humming noise of agreement, then took his eyes off the screen and focused on her, bold as a laser. "Not only that - and I don't want to get too excited here - but they were working on a project that dealt with brain trauma. Such as...the type of trauma inflicted when someone, say, gets shot in the head and doesn't die."

A flicker of hope in her chest, and her heart began beating double time. Was he…?

 _Pussycat, don't you know better than to get excited about shit like this? It never works out the way you think it will._

Honey set the pull-tab from the can on the desk and spun it. It made a curlicue pattern in the dust that lingered against the smooth, shiny wood. She stared at it, her body very still, because if she looked at him she might start to cry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying -" and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he tried to decide on the safest words to choose. "That their research was very early in its development, but there might be something here that can help you."

They sat in silence, the minutes ticking past slowly.

Arcade spoke first. "I'll have to go down to their records department, see what's there - a lot of the digital copies are password-protected and I can't figure out their system - but there might be something here that can help you. Something stronger than basic pain management."

She didn't want it to, but that dream fluttered inside her again, in the pit of her stomach, timid as a butterfly but more than a hundred times as strong. To be whole again, to be free of the splitting headaches and the dizziness that came when she so much as turned her head, to not feel like she was going to die whenever the barometric pressure changed or the sun hit a new, malicious angle?

 _I'd give almost anything for that._

 _Sure you would, babydoll. Just remember everything's got a price, and you want to know what it is before you run up a bill you can't pay._

Honey's hands stopped and she took a deep breath and then another. Her skin prickled and she knew the doctor watched her carefully; she could feel his eyes, soft and sympathetic on her skin. When she felt she could stay steady, she looked up and met his gaze.

"Where's this records department, then?"

* * *

The warehouse turned out to be a separate building from the main one, across an enormous broiling parking lot. Where the hospital was pretty much intact with only a few cracks in the building's facade, it looked as if the warehouse had sustained a direct hit during the Great War; a great crack down one wall was the first sign, confirmed by the obvious crater in the roof. John eyed it uneasily as they drew closer to the building; the concrete wall was scorched, and with so little rain in the desert the marks were still dark, sharp against the sand-blasted wall before them.

And of course the door was locked. The busted wall was broken too high to consider scrambling up there without a ladder or anything else to climb on, and anyway the crack was probably too narrow. There were no windows; aside from the huge crack and scorch marks, it was a secure windowless box, which left just picking the lock to get in.

Or he could, you know, blast the lock clean off. _What are shotguns for, right?_

Cass cheered when the gun went off and the lock dangled smoking from the door. A small piece of metal fell forward from the doorknob when John jiggled it, and despite the heat of it, he managed to get a couple fingers in the hole where the handle used to be and wrench the heavy metal door open, though his shoulder ached a bit with the effort.

Inside was dark and stiflingly hot. Clearly the hole in the roof was doing nothing for keeping the ambient temperature good, and John wondered briefly if everything would be destroyed. Hell, after two hundred years it was a miracle anything was still good to take. The room itself was a manmade cavern, vast and dim and sweltering.

They separated, Cass wandering off towards supplies while John followed the thrumming in his chest down the opposite wall to a door that boasted a simple sign that read "Pharmaceuticals."

The door to this room was locked, just like the one that led outside, but instead of going in blasting, John pulled a bobby pin and a slim screwdriver from inside his coat pocket and set to work on the lock. It took a few tries but finally he got it open and the lock clicked as he twisted the door handle. Inside the room was cold - vents overhead pumped frozen air into the metal-walled space, and it dawned on him that he was in a giant refrigerator. He propped the door open and breathed into his freezing hands, puffing warm air against his rapidly numbing fingers.

The refrigerated room was completely full of narrow metal shelves with narrow aisles between. He walked down the main aisle, peeking at labels and signs as he went. He'd never seen so much medication, and all of it intact - at least it was until he got to the far end of the room, a hundred feet or so from the door. Here there was a shelf knocked over into the one next to it, broken vials of some kind of serum frozen to the floor. The vent above was open and a corpse, hard with permafrost, dangled from it, feet fixed forever in a bicycling motion that made him stop and blink for a moment. It was hard to live with the reminders of the destruction that had wracked the world, but they were everywhere and hit you where you least expected it. Sometimes, though -

Well, sometimes it hurt to see what some people's last moments had been like, the terror they must have felt.

The vials on the floor were similar to Med-X. He knelt down and looked at the broken glass carefully. Thin, with a blue serum inside them that glowed faintly, like the Nuka Quantum his dad had brought him when he was little. Each vial was part of a syringe, pre-packed for safety in a thin plastic wrapper that read Rad-Safe! Complete with a fucking exclamation point, and wasn't that just ridiculous.

Why did that ring a bell?

 _Oh yeah - blissful euphoria, with an eighty-five percent chance of never getting back up._

He stood, stretched, and turned. Best to look for something more useful. This shit had never been properly tested, had never been -

John turned back to the box that had fallen from the shelf, a boring-looking white cardboard construction that was inked pale, bright blue on one side where the syringes had broken and the serum had leaked against the paper. He knocked it gently with one booted foot, and there was a crunching sound as a collection of broken syringes fell out, clattering onto the floor.

All broken, except for _one._

One syringe that glowed temptingly in the harsh white light of the refrigerated room, one with not even a single crack in its fragile glass sides, one that practically begged him to bend over and pick it up.

So he did. He picked it up, carefully turning it in his fingers, and told himself he was going to put it down and walk away, but instead he slid his other hand into his pack and pulled out a mostly-empty Mentats tin, and put it in there instead. He took out a couple Mentats, too, and dry-swallowed them, his mouth as parched as the desert outside. It was just to preserve something from the past, he told himself. Whenever there was only one of something left, it just seemed right to protect it.

 _I can stop whenever I want._

"Hey John, you in here?" Cass poked her head around the corner, and he waved to her with one hand as he shoved the Mentats back into the bottom of his pack. She came around the corner towards him, shaking her head. "Not much to be found out there, least not for me. Maybe Arcade can make heads or tails of it, but I can't figure that shit out."

He gestured to the shelves of chems around them. "I guess I found the stash."

Cass snorted. "Sure looks like it. Did you find anything useful, or is it all too, you know, extreme?"

He nodded. Tried not to think about the glowing vial he'd tucked into his bag. "According to the terminal in the director's office, they were working on some pain stuff that might be helpful."

"Great," Cass said tipping her hat up. "Let's go find some of that and get the fuck out of here."

John followed, sparing a glance back at the vent that hung open, two legs kicking out of it. Was it just him, or did those legs look more weathered than they should be?

Probably just the cold.

* * *

There was an elevator that took them down to the basement, where the sign in the lobby told them records were kept. The elevator itself was of the type Honey saw everywhere in the wasteland, if in better condition - bland inside, with a collapsed ceiling that had cast a tile onto the tile floor. It was larger than most, and held her and Arcade easily, and she tried not to think about the things that had been transported in it two centuries past.

Hospitals always gave her the creeps. It was so much better to be treated in a small clinic with a doctor who knew you well; better than the flimsy Legion tents of her childhood, with dust in every crevice and primitive treatment, better than this vast and sterile building with its endless halls and cavernous operating rooms.

With a ding and whoosh, the elevator doors opened in the basement, and they stepped into the quiet dark room. Arcade stepped to one side as she gazed at the endless stacks, and after a click the lights came on overhead.

The room was even larger than she'd thought at first, reaching back and back and back, and Honey thought for a moment of the vault she'd found some months back, of the endless atrium in the center of it. She wandered aimlessly, losing Arcade immediately as he began to search for a referencing terminal. She could hear him clicking away at something, muttering to himself about ideal conditions for paper records, and relative humidity and light conditions. His voice faded as he headed down a stack away from her.

She didn't know how long she wandered, or when exactly she realized that the headache was driving its ice pick back into her eye; all she knew was that she had only one syringe of Med-X left in her bag and the light down here was playing tricks with her eyes. She turned, heading back up the aisle she'd come down, but when she came to what she'd thought was the main corridor, it seemed to lead on forever in each direction, smaller shelves branching out on each side.

Her head ached, a driving pain behind her eye, and the bullet burned against the dead tissue of her brain. Not for the first time, she wondered what she'd lost when it blasted into her, chasing its friend, the one that had left the long scar along the side of her scalp. It occurred to her that her breaths were coming erratically, huge puffs of air that did nothing to relieve her. She turned down another of the endless aisles, but stacks of paper boxes of holotapes were all she saw, an infinite loop of cardboard and tapes and then she stumbled, falling into a shelf, and there was an avalanche of boxes and records, thankfully tipping away from her, and then everything was blank.

* * *

Arcade was gone when John and Cass returned to the director's office, crates of medications heavy in their arms. Cass set hers down, stretched, and sniffed herself with a grimace. "I'm gonna go find a shower," she told John, disappearing down the hall to the door labeled Clean Room.

At a loss, he lurked down the hall, calling out, but no one answered. John paced the hall, his bootheels echoing softly in the empty space. He wondered where Arcade had gone, if he was alright. The director's office looked the same as when he'd left, with the terminal screen still displaying some information about the brain trauma project the researchers had been working on. A can of water sat open on the desk, and he took a long drink from it, then set it back down and plopped into the armchair, legs askew over the armrest.

From his pack he pulled a pack of Mentats and his inhaler of Jet. Since Arcade was gone he might as well have a pick-me-up.

He didn't want to think about why he was waiting until he was alone to pull out his stash. It was easier to just pop a couple Mentats and huff his Jet in the silence of the abandoned building and then stuff them away when he heard the elevator down the hall give a ding.

"I need some help here," Arcade called, and John leapt to his feet. He'd never heard the doctor sound so distressed.

Coming through the sliding doors of the elevator, he saw Arcade dragging a body. He squinted. Was that Honey? When did she get here? _Maybe I've been more whacked-out than I thought._

John was there as fast as he could be, wrapping one hand under Honey's arm and helping to drag her down the hall. Damn, for a relatively small dame, she sure weighed a lot. Though some of that might be the armor and weapons still strapped to her.

"What happened?" Arcade guided them to the lounge, and they scrambled with pushing her up onto one of the couches there. Arcade bent over her, checking her pulse with one hand even as he began to fumble with the buckles of her armor, stripping the leather gear from her. John - maybe not the brightest guy but plenty observant - stepped in and began pulling the leathers from her legs, arranging her body to make her more comfortable as Arcade turned and grabbed his battered black bag from the table behind them.

"Not sure," the doctor said, pulling out a stethoscope and putting the buds in his ears. "We were in the records room and she just passed out."

John looked down at her face. It'd been awhile since he saw her at rest. She looked smaller, vulnerable, younger than he'd realized. Her eyelids fluttered but stayed closed, and he wondered if she dreamed. With that bright blue gaze gone, he found himself inspecting her closely as if he'd never seen her before. The scar on her temple had faded some since they'd met, though it still rose in mountainous peaks above one eyebrow and back into her hairline, across the side of her head. Its twin, thinner and lacier, created a second parallel bald streak through her dark hair.

"When'd she get here?" He reached out and took her hand. The skin was calloused and chapped and dry. An ancient scar worked its way across the palm. Maybe he had some lotion.

Arcade sat back, pulling the stethoscope from his ears. He stood, groaning a little, and grabbed Honey's knees, bending her at the waist to bring her feet above her head. "Maybe a couple hours ago." He hummed a little to himself, a distracted sound, then put her feet down for a moment before doing the same thing again. "Probably the heat," he said, more to himself than to John.

"People usually faint in the desert?"

"Sometimes," Arcade told him, gracing him with a small smile. "And between her brain injury and pushing herself so hard, I've gotta say I'm not surprised this happened. I'm just glad it was here where there was someone to help her."

John looked back at her eyes. Still they fluttered, the dark lashes like butterflies on her cheeks. What was she seeing?

He stroked his fingers lightly over her hand and then looked back up at Arcade, who was setting her legs back down at an angle over the armrest of the couch.

"Not much left to do besides wait," the doctor said. He sat down on the coffee table behind him with a heavy sigh, and John felt his heart leap as he saw the damp ring of sweat inside Arcade's collar. Beside them, Honey let out several quiet breaths but stayed still, as if she were sleeping. Without letting go of her hand, John reached over to take one of Arcade's as well, the doctor's normally cool fingers warm with stress or fear.

* * *

Benny crushed her against him, the wool of his checkered coat scratchy and smelling of sweat and desert. She leaned into him, her head screaming where the scar tissue prickled, hair just starting to grow back in where Doc Mitchell had shaved it. The skin of his neck was tender as she'd somehow known it would be, pale and rough from decades of desert living, short dark stubble across his chin. She knew exactly where to put her lips to elicit a low groan and his hands on her hips, and one of his hands made its way up her back to tug lightly on her hair.

Honey gasped into his mouth and one of his hands made its way from her waist to push up under the leather armor over her chest, skimming across the soft flannel of her shirt. She could feel her body responding to his, to the thigh he'd pressed between her knees, to the grind of his hips on hers.

"Benny is gonna show you the Tops," his voice was whiskey-soaked and enthralling against her throat, and Honey wondered why it all felt so amazing, so familiar, how he knew exactly the right spot to make her - ahhh, like that, the way he found her nipple through her shirt and tweaked it with just the right amount of force to make her clamp her teeth down on his earlobe. His face was in her hair and she heard, "Damn, I missed you, you crazy broad."

And that was when the whole thing slid into place for her. He did know her, or she knew him, or they knew each other. She slid her hand down his leg, around the inside of his thigh, then back up to caress his chest. Before he could react, his pistol was in her right hand and she had his tie wrapped around her opposite fist. Maria - that was what he called his gun, and why the hell did she know that? - tapped the unshaven underside of his chin, and she yanked once on his tie to show she meant business.

Benny let out a chuckle. "I shoulda known this would happen. You've never been much to forgive and forget, have you baby?"

She gave another tug to his tie, and he winced, the grin fading slightly.

"¿Por qué no debería volar tu maldita cabeza?" Shit, that wasn't right. She'd meant to say it in English.

"Much as I love it when you speak to me in Spanish, pussycat, you're gonna get better answers if you try English." There was a small bruise forming already on the underside of his jaw where the gun pressed urgently, and part of her felt a pang of disgust for how soft city living had left him. Better to lean into that feeling, rather than let herself think about how good that bruise would taste, caught between her teeth when she climbed atop him.

"Why shouldn't I blow your fucking head off?" She tried again, and this time it came out both in the right language and in a vicious purr. Against her thigh, she felt his dick twitch, growing hard again despite him.

"You know, I think I liked it better the other way," Benny said, and she clipped him above the ear with the pistol butt, smacking him hard enough for him to let out a wordless exclamation of pain.

"You shot me, you fucking asshole," she said. "And apparently we...know each other." His satisfied smirk and the roll of his hips into hers told her everything she needed to know and then some. She clubbed him again, though this time he jerked his head to one side, dodging the blow and taking her arm with him as he dropped down onto the bed. His hand went up to her right hand, taking her by surprise, and Maria went flying across the room to land softly in the carpet by the bathroom door.

"I thought you'd _remember_ this, baby," he said, rolling on top of her, his breath scorching her chest, his hand lazily tracing its way up her thigh. She blinked, trying to decide whether to smash his head against the wall. Her hand tightened its grip on his black tie, the smooth silk slippery in her hand. There was the faintest graze of his lip against her ear, and her resolve buckled.

"Don't remember much of anything, pendejo, on account of the bullet in my brain." But she did, or her body did, at any rate, and she pressed up against him, her skin yearning for his, as his hands made their way to the clasp on her chestpiece.

"Let me remind you, then -" She yanked on his tie, guiding his face to her hips, and she could feel his lips form a grin against the tender skin of her stomach where his roaming hands had pushed the hem of her shirt aside. "You did good, baby, getting rid of Mr. House." His fingers worked her belt open, and she sighed, lifting her hips to help him roll her pants down. Benny's lips on her stomach, then on her hip, and then it hit her what he'd said.

Past and present came crashing together and Honey sat up in the bed. Everything was the same as that night weeks ago when she'd gone to The Tops to kill him and fucked him instead, but when he looked back up at her she saw him as he'd been in Caesar's tent, eyes huge in a dirty, half-starved face. His face was hunted, despite the grin he wore at the thought of what lay inside her clothes, and she dropped the tie, sitting up.

When she sat up, Honey sat up for real. It was harder than it should have been; someone had positioned her on a couch with her feet over the armrest, and her muscles were tired, unwilling to help her sit up so quickly. Probably dehydrated, she thought, looking around the room and trying to focus her eyes.

Next to the bed sat Arcade, of course. She remembered dimly turning a corner in the basement, and the shelf crashing down around her, and even now her head ached on the bad side. Arcade had papers spread across his lap, a giant stack of them, and when she groaned he flicked his eyes to her.

A smile creased his cheeks, and without breaking eye contact, he called out to Cass and John. There was a rustle, and then the two of them came into view, a half-deck of cards still in Cass's hands.

"Couldn't even put 'em down, huh?" Everyone looked at her for a moment, then Cass started and looked at her own hand, blushing slightly when she realized she still held the cards.

"You know I wouldn't trust him not to stack the deck while I wasn't looking," the redhead said with a smirk at John, who bumped her hip with his own. Honey smiled vaguely. It was nice to see them getting along.

"It's easier to cheat when you understand the game," John groused good-naturedly, and this time Honey's smile was genuine. "This guy here was pretty damn worried about you," he clapped Arcade roughly on the shoulder, and the doctor pinked a little at the words.

"Fainting, after a traumatic brain injury - well, of course I was worried."

"We all were." The two of them met each others' eyes and that was when Honey realized she was going to throw up. It happened so fast she could do no more than lean over the side of the couch, away from everyone, and the sound of retching filled the room. When she'd finished there was silence, though her head still spun.

"My thoughts exactly," Cass finally said. Both Arcade and John glared at her, and Honey let out a weak laugh.

"It's just - the pain -" At that, John let Arcade go and hustled to the far end of the room, out of her sight. He returned a few minutes later with a syringe. "Med-X?"

Arcade shook his head, getting a piece of surgical tubing ready. When they'd found a vein in her elbow that would support the syringe and the skin had been cleaned, Arcade inserted it and slid the plunger down. Where Med-X was ice in her veins, this felt like an entire goddamn glacier. It barrelled its way through the thin blood vessels and into her heart like a freight train at top speed, and she slammed her head back into the pillow with a low, animal groan. Arcade's eyes were worried and Cass clucked her tongue and turned away.

John was there a moment later, adjusting a cushion under her and slipping the needle from her arm. He rubbed the skin there gently, and when Arcade had turned back to his papers, she felt his breath near her ear, scalding against the skin that burned from the chem.

"A little too much, eh?" The words tickled. She nodded. "I know. I tested it out for you. Figured you could use a nice ride after what you've been through." Honey's eyes closed and she leaned back into the couch. There was the sound of footsteps and the quality of the air changed as John walked away, back towards Cass, whistling innocently.

Spinning down, down, down through the ocean in her mind, Honey came to rest on a cloud.

"I have to go back to Fortification Hill," she told the others. "I have to go get Benny."

"Ugh, not this love shit again," Cass's voice came up to her as if through a crevasse, echoing and snarky.

"And I can't keep putting if off. I have to kill Caesar."


	18. An Old Immovable Object Like Me

Way Back Home: An Old Immovable Object Like Me

Notes: I've been going through some personal stuff that made it hard to focus on writing this chapter, because I was impatient to get to more of the overall plot, specifically John's arc. What I realized was I was trying to force the story to happen too quickly and this thing needed more room to breathe, so we're going to give these folks some space now.

* * *

The hot sun beat down on them as John and Honey made their way across the godforsaken Mojave to the guiding wall outside Freeside and North Vegas. Travel at night had its own dangers - nightstalkers, whatever _they_ were, and Legionaries - but John was starting to think it would be preferable to walking around outside in the middle of summer in the fucking desert.

 _I've had better ideas than coming out here,_ and then he thought of Arcade again. Arcade, with his long cool fingers, his pale skin that burned so easily, his deflecting tone and strong legs. A smile worked its way across his face. He wouldn't give this up if it had meant not having _him;_ no, this was where he belonged. At least for as long as Arcade would have him. It'd been so long since someone wanted him, with all his layers of bullshit and worst impulses.

 _I'd like you to be around awhile._

The words still echoed through his head, though it'd been two days now since he last saw Arcade. He could still feel the flutter in his chest whenever he thought of that moment, the throb that had coursed through him when he'd first thought what they meant.

Ahead of him, Honey stopped dead in the road and dropped to a crouch, whipping the trail carbine from her back and into her arms in an enviably fluid motion. John paused behind her, then hunched down close to her hip, following her scanning eyes to the ruins to the right. Everything around them seemed hushed - was it unnaturally still, or was it the typical quiet of a land ravaged by nuclear fire? He couldn't tell. They sat like that, on their haunches, waiting, for what felt like an hour. When Honey finally stood and returned the rifle to the holster on her back, John could feel the skin on the back of his neck blistering in the sun.

They had to get under cover, John thought desperately as he pawed through his bag for a can of water. He cracked the top of one and took a slow sip - _best not to rush it when you're so dehydrated_ \- then another a minute later. He offered it to her, and she took it without hesitation, her brown and freckled arm dark in the sunshine.

"I gotta tell you, sister, it's fucking brutal out here."

Honey eyed him critically over the top of her sunglasses and apparently decided he'd suffered enough. She finally gave a small nod and mildly said, "Alright, then." She led the way over to a building that was mostly intact - it had half a roof, at least, to create a bit of shade - and they took cover from the sun there.

John crawled into shelter, grateful for the relative cool of the shaded concrete floor under his back. He didn't dare take his armor off - someone could come along and attack them any time out here, this far from the walls of Westside - but it felt a solid twenty degrees cooler out of the sun.

"I'm sorry," Honey said, sitting next to him, her rifle at her side. She splashed a little water from the can on a kerchief and laid it over John's face, and the moist cool felt delicious as he breathed through it. After a few minutes, he found he didn't think he was going to die anymore. "I forget sometimes that you're not from around here."

He withdrew the cloth from his face to look at her, and though a small smile pulled at the corners of her lips, he could tell she wasn't mocking him, didn't think any less of him. He sighed in relief at the cool air and her continued good opinion and lowered the damp kerchief back over his face.

"What's it like? Where you come from, I mean. The Commonwealth, is that what you said it was called?"

Sometimes he was surprised by how little she knew about the greater world; Honey always seemed so strong, so capable. Even with her lost memories and the traumatic brain injury, she was the one who taught him how to skin a gecko. She was the one who outran mortars even without a hit of Jet to give her a boost. She was the one who sliced open a cactus to show him where the water lurked. The idea that she didn't know anything east of Utah still surprised him.

He breathed slowly through his kerchief and thought.

"Well, in some ways the Commonwealth's a lot like the Mojave, you know, both post-apocalyptic wastelands," he finally said. "Although Boston, where I'm from, got hit a lot harder than Vegas."

A snort from her. "I guess House did one thing right, then." Then softer, almost under her breath and sounding more than a little like Cass, "Bastard."

"It's up north, and as far east as you can go before you hit the ocean," he continued. "Some friends and I used to like to go to the beach at Nordhagen and catch mirelurks for a boil." The memory made him smile; it'd been years since he and Frankie Yellowtail and Moira O'Flannery did that, but the last time had been amazing, watching the sun come up over the sea, the smell of salt in his skin.

This time Honey laughed. "I only understood about half of that. What's the ocean like?"

John propped himself up on one elbow, the kerchief dropping off his face, and fixed her with a serious look. "The ocean?"

She nodded, her face genuine. How to describe the vastness of the sea, great and briny and dark? He sighed.

"Imagine...Lake Mead, but instead of seeing shore on the other side, it goes on forever, or at least farther than you can see. On the other side, maybe there's land, but the water stretches so far it would take you months to cross it in a boat."

Honey frowned, visibly unconvinced. "I have a hard time believing that."

John chuckled; it did sound unbelievable, but then again, how many improbable things had either of them experienced in their lives? Compared to the synths that supposedly swarmed the Commonwealth, the ocean seemed downright mundane.

"Tell me something else. Something _true,_ " she said, her expression just this side of a glare, as if daring him to lie to her again.

"There's rumors," he began, "of the Institute. Scientists from before the war in a hidden underground lab, who manufacture perfect replicas of human beings. They send them across the Commonwealth, sometimes taking the place of people you know and love and -" he thinks again of Martin, of his too-broad smile, of the way his brother seemed to wear his skin like he'd only just put it on. There was no way -

It didn't matter. He was never going home again, anyway. The Mojave could be his home now. Arcade would be his hearth.

"Earth to John, hola, you still with us?" Honey snapped two fingers in front of his face and John blinked, turning back to her. "Where'd you go just now?"

Should he tell her? _Why not? It doesn't matter anyway._

"Before I skipped town," he began, wondering why he was even bothering to tell her this. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. Honey took the pack and lit one of his own. "I got into it with my brother. Real dickhead, but this time he did something even more rotten than usual. He did something that got a lot of innocent people killed, drove 'em outta their homes. And I've been wondering if maybe they replaced him."

Something about saying the words aloud made the idea seem both more realistic and more insane. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd laughed in his face, but she didn't. Honey breathed out a plume of smoke and looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. "Shit. Seriously?"

John nodded, a bit numb. "It's probably crazy."

"No lo sé," Honey breathed, her voice soft. "I got shot in the head, twice, and I'm still here. There's so many loco things in this world. I don't blame you for wondering." Her hand landed on his for a moment, hot and comforting, and gave him a light squeeze.

That was definitely the truth, he thought, leaning back in the shade and puffing at his cigarette. The world was a weird fuckin' place.

* * *

It was nearly dark, the sun glowing very deeply in the western horizon when they finally set out again after a quiet afternoon in the sweltering shade. They'd taken naps in turns, one person watching for danger while the other dozed, and now Honey's head felt fuzzy and heavy with sleep. She missed Cass's acerbic tone and Arcade's sarcasm, though the doctor was right; it made sense for him to stay at the hospital and continue working his way through the records. He'd been practically giddy at the thought of it - "I mean it, there really might be something here that will help you!" - that it had been the best idea. But her feet had been itchy, and getting on the road to the Great Khans was next on her list, and Cass had been right - if she was going up against the Legion, John was the right one to take.

"My mouth just isn't any good at listening to my brain," Cass had said with her characteristic frankness. "I'll get you into trouble - well, _more_ trouble anyway, and definitely before you're ready."

Now she and John crept through the encroaching gloom, the moon rising full and huge behind them. It was going to be a bright night, a good evening for travel with it lighting the Mojave like a beacon, though she wasn't sure how much of it would filter into Red Rock Canyon. Ahead of them loomed the decrepit ruins of the old park at Spring Valley Ranch, all broken boards and split beams. She could hear the snuffling of the bighorners, but if they gave the beasts a wide berth, she doubted they'd run into any trouble they couldn't handle.

The sun vanished behind the wall of the canyon as they slunk along, hugging the vast striped outcropping that created the canyon on the near side, the top of it glowing pink and orange in the dying daylight. The canyon itself was deep, and long, and the yawning darkness made her nervous until her eyes adjusted. By the time they made it far enough to see the Khans' circular tents, full dark had taken over the Mojave, and Honey found she'd been right - the bit of moonlight that made its way down the canyon did them no favors - instead all around them were menacing shadows that made her skin crawl, wondering which one will jump out and attack them.

After what happened in Boulder City, she wouldn't be surprised if they shot her on site.

 _It wasn't my fault, though, it was that goddamn kid with the NCR, he fired the first shot -_

 _You really think the Khans are gonna buy that swill, pussycat? I got a bridge to sell you if you do._

 _Fucking hell, Benny, I'm gonna give you an extra kick in the ass for all this shit when I finally get you out of there._

 _Hey, for all you know, I'm already dead._

 _No. Caesar told me you were mine and I intend to take him up on that._

 _You promise, pussycat?_ There was a smile in his voice, a pact, and she had to blink to remind herself it wasn't really him she was speaking to but some dim specter that lived inside her own half-destroyed brain. Behind her was the soft skitter of gravel, and for a moment Honey thought John had gotten sloppy, but then then heard a man speak, and it wasn't him at all.

"Hold it right there," came the low growl, and she paused, straightening slowly and lifting her hands to show she was unarmed. She turned her head slightly, trying to get an idea of where exactly John was, and saw him behind her, doing the same. Good. Smart.

"We're just here to do business with the Great Khans," she said softly, turning her head more and letting her body follow so she faced the man training the gun on them. He was a bit taller than her, with a mohawk and Khan armor. She tried not to think of the shallow grave in Goodsprings, of the Khans who'd helped put her there, to focus instead on tilting her head just so, and letting her hair ripple over her shoulder to catch in the flimsy moonlight. Men seemed to like that.

This man, however, did not seem to notice. Maybe it was too dark.

"Are you now, Courier?" he spat, and there was a feeling of ice in her veins.

 _Yes Man got a lotta things right, but maybe this was a step too far._ Benny's voice was smoky and disappointed. _Still, pussycat, you've always had the luck of the devil. Might be worth taking a gamble here. Still got seven lives, after all._

"So you've heard of me?" She lowered her hands slightly, paused when she saw the Khan enforcer gesture with his shotgun, and raised them again. "But I haven't met you."

"Oh, I've heard of _you,_ " his voice was a soft tenor, but with an edge to it that made her nervous. "You're the reason we lost so many at Boulder City. Jessup told us what happened."

Jessup. That red-haired shit.

"Look," she started, but then there were rough hands on her back - while she'd been turned to face him, someone else had come up behind her, and she found rope going around her wrists, tight enough that she could feel the skin there would be rubbed clean off.

"No, no more out of you," came a deeper voice next to her ear. "Papa's gonna get to decide what happens to you, _Courier._ "

* * *

If he weren't being held prisoner, John thought, this might be just the place for him. Honey had told them about about these folks - chem manufacturers and dealers, his type of people - and at least no one had shot them yet. He didn't take too kindly to having their packs and weapons taken, though, and the fact that they'd been tied up and tossed in a tent under guard chafed. Literally, in fact; the ropes binding his wrists were too tight, and he was starting to feel like he'd blow any one of them for a cigarette or a hit of Jet.

He sighed and rolled his head, trying to loosen up the stiffness in his neck. Next to him, Honey was sprawled on the filthy rug, panting and sweating. Looked like whatever that pain killer they'd found in the hospital up by Nellis was wearing off, and she was starting to go through withdrawal. If they didn't let her get a hit of something soon, she'd be hallucinating babies on the ceiling and shit. He had to do something, he thought, _now._

Against his better instincts, the ones that told him to sit down, stay put, and not get shot in the head, John used his bound hands to push himself into a standing position and made his way over to the flap that served as a door. With a deep breath and prayer, he stuck his head through, looking around for the guard.

"Hey, brother," he called out, jerking his head to get the attention of the guard. The guy in the vest dropped his cigarette, crushing it in the dirt, and walked over languidly. Clearly he didn't think John was much of a threat, and a voice in the back of his head told him not to take offense at that; if things went even more sour, it might be useful to be seen as a patsy.

"What do you want?" Up close, the Khan smelled of weeks-old sweat and stale beer. Wincing, John shifted his shoulder so the guard could see into the tent.

"It's my friend here, see," John gestured with his bound hands, cursing his lack of free movement. He'd never realized before just how much he used them when he talked. "She's got a _condition,_ man, and without her medication, she's just gonna get worse. So unless you guys are planning to kill us, I'd sure like to get a couple things out of her pack, get her straight again."

The Khan stared into the tent and at that moment Honey groaned, the sound of agony piercing and genuine. Couldn't have planned it better, John thought, though there was no way the woman was lucid enough to know what was happening. They'd been in this tent for hours, and she'd gone downhill about halfway through the night. The guard frowned.

"Not my problem if the junkie bitch needs to get high," he started, and John stamped his foot on the ground in frustration.

"Look, _pal,_ " he tried through gritted teeth, though his voice kept a - mostly - pleasant tone. "She's not a junkie, just a lady who's had a serious injury, and without that chem, she's gonna be fuckin' useless to you. You hear me?"

The guard rolled his eyes and stepped back, letting the tent flap whip shut in his face. John was about to reach through again, use his bound wrists to choke the fucker to the ground, when he heard the Khan call out.

"Hey Maybell? You watch the tent for a few minutes. I gotta go...take a leak."

Ten minutes later, the guy had returned with a syringe of Med-X and a piece of rubber tubing stuck in his vest. He passed them through to John, along with a small steel flask that smelled of alarmingly high-proof gin, and John set to work. Less than a half-hour later, still damp with sweat but with her eyes clear, Honey sat next to him, her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you."

"Of course, babe. We gotta stick together, right?"

"Siempre," she murmured, her nose against his neck, just under his ear.

Siempre. He liked the sound of that. "What's that mean?"

"Always."

* * *

It was late in the day when they were finally dragged from the tent and taken into the longhouse. The skin on Honey's wrists was, as predicted, raw from the rubbing of the ropes, and bits of sand working under them made her want to yelp in pain every time someone grabbed her, which they did every step of the way. She kept her head high, though, her eyes squinted against the harsh desert sun, and when they brought her before Papa Khan, she fixed him with her most neutral expression. Best to not pick a pose until she knew which way the winds blew.

The room was full of tribals, seated at long tables or standing against the walls. It was much hotter inside than out, and Honey tried to guess how many Khans there actually were - two hundred? Three? It must have been the whole tribe in there, sweating and stinking in the late afternoon heat. They were marched to the far end of the room, where three men sat at a long table - the sentry who'd caught them the night before, a man in the middle in a horned helmet and a dark beard, and to his right a dark-skinned man in plain leather whose stiff posture screamed Legion. Behind him, leaning against the wall and half in the dark, was Jessup, arms crossed and eyes guarded.

"So, Courier Six," the man in the mohawk began, "What brings you to the Great Khans? You say you are here to do business, but I doubt we have any interest in any business with the woman responsible for the deaths of so many of our men."

Common courtesy dictated answering the person who asked you a question. It also tended to frown on tying people up and holding them hostage, so she figured they were beyond courtesy, so instead of answering him she spoke to Jessup, locking her eyes on him.

"I see you made it back from Boulder City safely." He blinked at her, and even from where she stood she could see his muscles tense at being so directly addressed. "Too bad you left your men to be slaughtered by the NCR."

Jessup licked his lips and frowned at her.

"I don't believe you, girl," the man in the middle said, turning to Jessup with a frown. He must be Papa, she thought, from his girth and the imperious way he spoke. She tried not to think about the way he called her girl and instead watched the expressions pass over Jessup's face. None of them were particularly convincing to her, but then again, she knew the truth of what had happened there; the Khans, apparently, didn't.

So she raised her voice, loud enough so that everyone in the room would be able to hear her. "You didn't tell them you left your men on the ground, shot and crying? That an NCR recruit - a mere boy - broke off the peace accord I negotiated for you, and then you fled like a dog, like a -"

"You lie!" Jessup rocketed off the wall, eyes afire.

"Looks like I touched a nerve," she said softly, a flicker of pride in her chest. Behind her she could feel John stiffen, though there must have been three feet between them, and she didn't know what he thought he'd do with no weapons and his hands bound anyway.

The thought was sweet, though.

"She lies, Papa, you know the truth. I barely escaped with my life," Jessup said, not taking his eyes from hers. She tried not to smile and found herself losing that battle. "I did everything I could, but the NCR were too goddamn many."

Papa looked at him carefully, then turned to the legionary - he had to be Legion, she could feel it in her bones - and there was a minute of whispered conversation.

"Karl here says that the Legion has a tradition. When a man's honor has been impugned, he may challenge his accuser to a fight in the ring." Papa's voice was a deep, steady baritone, a rumble like thunder over the desert. "It just so happens we have a ring. And, as we are to join the Legion after the Dam is won, it only seems right that we allow Jessup here to challenge the Courier to single combat."

Honey felt a chill settle over her entire body. She hadn't eaten since the day before, was barely standing, was chafed and broken from being confined - she was in no shape to fight. Especially not someone with forty pounds on her, who was well-rested and healthy. She looked at Jessup, trying to evaluate him. She'd seen him running from a fight before; maybe, just maybe she could get out of this with her skin intact. If she thought hard enough, could she remember the ring fights she saw as a girl, before her mother sent her away from the Legion camp in the dead of night?

"What is the alternative?" She looked from Papa to Jessup, holding very still, trying not to betray her nervousness. This wasn't going to end well, she could just feel it.

And then, a very interesting thing happened - Papa looked to the legionary, who nodded with steel eyes, and she knew then exactly what was coming. She couldn't have said how, or why, but she did.

"There is no 'alternative,'" Papa told her, and something in his voice sounded wistful, reluctant. "Either you allow Jessup to challenge you in an honorable battle, or you are turned over to the Legion for enslavement."

The legionary's eyes tracked down her body slowly, bright green in his dark face, and she fought the urge to squirm. It felt as though his very hands touched her, and she stood very still, turning her gaze back to Papa, wincing only barely when the legionary spoke. "Yes, we've been in need of a new girl to... _service_ the troops. Or perhaps the Legate would like a new pet."

He could only mean Lanius. Lanius, who forced his men to murder each other when they failed. Lanius, whose reputation for brutality had made it all the way to Zion Canyon. Lanius who, it was said, once crucified a slave girl, then fucked her face and her cunt before the crucifix was raised, raped her so brutally that she bled and drew crows, who feasted on her before she died.

"I agree," she said, eyes still on Papa, on the way his lip seemed to curl at the ideas the legionary said. Her voice as steady as she could make it. "I am ready whenever the coward is."

* * *

It turned out that the fight was immediately; John was brought, hands still tied and dizzy from the striped rocks of the canyon, down to the circle at the center of the camp. Honey was led with him, and the whole way down the sandy incline, he murmured all the knife-fighting advice he could think of, some of which was helpful - keep your blade up and out, to make it harder to get close to you, turn your wrists in so if you get slashed at least it won't hit anything too valuable - and less helpful, like when he advised her not to let the sun get in her eyes. She'd blinked at him then, a small smile playing across her face, and gestured with her bound hands at the darkness forming around them.

"More than anything," he said, trying to keep his heart from breaking as he looked at her. "Keep moving. A moving target is harder to hit than one that stands still." He glanced back at Jessup, coming down the hill behind them, one of his buddies clapping him on the back, another pointing at Honey and talking far too loudly about how maybe the Legion'd let them keep her.

Honey, through the whole thing, remained quiet. She looked calm, but John had spent enough time around her now that he had a feeling her brain was going into overdrive, trying to figure out a way out of this that didn't end with her blood on the sand - or at least, not too much of it.

Apparently, nothing came to her, or maybe there really was no other option, because before he knew it, they were at the ring and the man in the mohawk, the one from the long table, was untying Honey's ropes, rubbing some feeling into her hands with a gentle touch. Honey thanked him with a sweet smile, a timid smile, and the Khan nodded. She turned to John and brushed a kiss on his cheek, soft and warm, then leaned close to his ear.

"If I don't make it out of this," she said, and he could feel the flutter of her lashes against his ear, "kill Caesar."

There wasn't time for more; someone grabbed his shoulders, and someone else hers, and he was dragged across the ring to stand next to Papa Khan and the legionary, the guy with the mohawk on his other side. Honey was dragged into the ring to wait for Jessup, a machete shoved in her hand. He watched as she stretched, one arm across her chest, then the other, then both her legs. Some of the Khans pointed, laughing, but all John could think was, _smart girl._ With her limbs stiff from being tied up and lying cold on the ground for so many hours, she could use the limbering up.

"I hope she makes it out of this," the man with the mohawk mumbled next to him. It was hard to hear the man's voice over the cheers and slurs of the crowd as Jessup made his way into the ring, hands over his head and a bullshit grin on his face. There was no mistaking it, though - he was meant to hear.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," John said, shifting closer so he could keep his voice low.

In the ring, Jessup was handed a machete. Honey's they threw to the sand before her. She bent easily at the waist and lifted it, tossing it back and forth between her hands to test the weight and grip, and somehow that made him feel more confident about her chances than anything else so far.

"I think joining the Legion is a mistake," the man said, rocking nervously back in his heels and tracking Honey carefully with his eyes. "It'll be the end of us, of our tribe and our traditions."

John nodded. "You're right about that. They'll crush you like they do everyone else, just grit under a bootheel."

There was a shout around them as the fight began, with Jessup charging close to Honey. She danced away from him with a quick sidestep at the last moment, and he went slicing through the air where he'd expected her to be, tripping over his own feet as he tried to right himself and avoid flying into the wall of the ring.

"You ready to tell the truth yet, Jessup?" He'd never heard her voice sound like that before, breathy and high but with a bitter undercurrent. Jessup turned, glaring at her, his chin dusty, and charged after her, angry and graceless as a bull. If John had been worried before, he was less so now, watching the man and his complete lack of technique, and watching the way Honey protected her neck with her left hand, eyes darting to keep track of her surroundings.

"If she wins this," the man began again, though he never took his eyes off the fight before them. "Do you think she'd be willing to try to talk Papa out of this alliance with the Legion?"

John smiled, watching as Honey went into a roll past Jessup's feet, her head against her stomach, forcing him to stop mid-step and turn to chase her. Behind him, the Khans began to boo and hiss.

They wanted blood, and they wanted it now. Her blood, the interloper.

She righted herself, glanced behind her to see Jessup coming at her again and, graceful as a radstag doe, darted away from a wild slash. Another boo, louder this time, uglier. "Get the bitch," a voice called, louder than the rest, from the other side of the ring.

"It's funny that you ask," John winced as Jessup tried to close in with her and she ducked, his blade barely missing the top of her head as she went down. Her foot shot out, fast and vicious in its heavy boot, and collided with the back of Jessup's knee. He buckled, then toppled forward, waving his machete blindly as he crashed to the ground. "That's why we came."

"Then I'm very glad I came to speak with you. I'm Regis," mohawk-guy said, and John nodded.

"John," he said back. As he turned back to the ring, he caught sight of the legionary, eyes glowing, looking not at Honey and Jessup, as one might expect but instead at him.

* * *

She was getting tired. Jessup didn't seem to be waning; though his attacks were easy enough to avoid with his sloppiness, Honey doubted she could keep dodging as long as he could keep swinging. No, her energy reserves were low, and her knees were already shaking with fatigue and hunger. She needed to end this and soon or she wasn't going to like the way it would go.

The next time Jessup charged her, she didn't dodge, at least, not like she had been. Instead of falling completely away, she took a baby step back, letting him knock into her with his empty hand, and grabbed his wrist. She didn't have enough strength to pull it around to his back, or to swing his body towards hers and stab him in the chest, but she had just enough strength to knock him off balance as she brought her knee up, tripping him and flipping him so he landed on his back on the ground.

This time he was the one out of breath, though he still held his machete. She thought of John, of the Gomorrah, of Cachino's face, and realized she didn't have the brute strength to sit on a man's elbows and keep him grounded, especially not one so much bigger than her. At least John and Cachino were almost the same size.

What Honey did have, though, was a winded man and the element of surprise, so instead she stepped firmly on his right hand, the one that held the machete, and forced his fingers open with the weight of her boot. He dropped the machete, and she kicked it away with her other foot as his left hand came up and punched her in the vagina. He was screaming something incoherent, and she fell off him into the sand, a wordless, animal keening ripping from her throat.

"Why didn't you just tell them the truth," she grunted, rolling over and scrabbling through the sand for the machete that had bounced out of her hand as she went down, trying not to think about the pain between her legs. Trying to remember anything - _anything_ \- from the Legion fights she'd seen, but the only image she could come up with was of dogs tearing apart a cripple who'd been too weak to continue marching. Not the most helpful memory, but her fucked up brain didn't seem to be helping at all anymore.

 _Stop fighting all noble, pussycat. This is a game. You wanta be the winner or the loser?_

A hand grabbed her ankle, pulling her back before her fingers could close over the machete, and she kicked her other foot desperately at the air, trying to connect with a face, a hand, anything. Nothing happened, though, except that she was dragged on her face back towards Jessup, who rolled her over easily with one rough motion to stand, staring down at her, his own machete recovered and in his hand. Somewhere distant, beneath her heartbeat and ten layers of disinterest, she could feel where her pant leg had ripped along with the skin underneath.

 _Won't matter now,_ she thought, _not when he kills me._

 _Then fight the fuck back, baby. The odds are stacked in his favor, but I think you can still make a win outta this._

There was only one weapon left, then. It hadn't gotten her very far with these guys up to this point, but what did she have to lose. So Honey took a deep breath, stared up at Jessup, and shouted, loud enough for all the Khans to hear.

"Did you tell them about McMurphy? How he begged you to save him but you just took off, pissing your pants because some little boy from the NCR took a shot and you were too hopped up on your own chems to stand down? Huh? Did you tell them that, you motherfucking coward?"

"Why the fuck would I?" Jessup spat and tossed his machete aside. He leaned down before her, wrapped his hands around her throat, and lifted her to his height. She kicked, trying to free herself or to get him in the shin, she wasn't sure which, and mostly succeeded in convincing him to tighten his grip. She could barely get a word out, but that didn't stop her from trying.

"You were afraid like a little girl, weren't you, pendejo? Afraid the Legion wouldn't take a maldito puto like you? Maybe they still will, if they just need another asshole to fuck," she gasped around his hand, and he tightened his grip further, cutting off her ability to talk. She swung an arm at him, aiming a weak punch, but his reach was too long and her strength was fading.

"I didn't want to run," he said loudly. Too loudly, she hoped. Everything was going fuzzy at the edges, and there was a silent roar in her ears. Still, she heard what came next. "I fucked up, okay? You think I haven't regretted it every day since? They were my family and I -"

Something knocked into him and she dropped, suddenly able to breathe and blissfully aware of the murmuring quiet around her. Her eyelids were a thousand pounds each and they both dropped shut, bringing her consciousness down with them.


	19. I Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle

Way Back Home: I Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle

Notes: There's a bit of table-setting in this chapter before we go for broke next time. Still, I hope there's time for some fun.

* * *

When Honey came to, she found herself still lying on her back on the sandy ground of the fighting ring. The first thing she was able to register were the winking bright stars glowing against the deep periwinkle of the early evening sky. She didn't know where she was for a moment, then realized the commotion at the other end of the ring. She lay there, eyes half-open, for at least two minutes before she finally decided it was safe enough and dragged herself to sitting. Her left side seemed to be all bruise, but she was alive. A rock dug into her spine, and she shifted slightly and found her body ached.

 _Good job, pussycat. Brings you down to five lives in my estimation, but you won and that's all that matters._

Across the ring and through the fence, she could see two pairs of eyes watching her - John's dark ones, brows knitted together in concern that faded when she threw him a wink that probably looked better than it felt; and the legionary's bright green gaze, which seemed to be assessing her.

A shiver worked its way through her and she broke his stare first, turning her head slowly - fuck, that _hurt_ \- to look at the collection of Khans standing a few feet away from her, arguing.

"Seems she's awake," Papa Khan said in his rumbling voice, looking down at her. Silence fell in waves; first his little party quieted, then it rippled out across the ring. Honey could feel all the eyes of the Khans on her, so she forced herself to stand, forced herself to pretend it didn't hurt. Her throat ached where Jessup had tried to choke the life from her and she coughed, trying not to wince.

"Has he finally told you the truth, then?"

Papa Khan turned from her to look at Jessup with naked disgust. "He has. Still, we were lucky to get to you before he finished you off. You fought well, cub."

Honey gave a small nod.

The man in the mohawk stepped forward, grabbing her hand and throwing it into the air in a motion of victory. She tried to stifle her surprise - she'd hardly won that fight, at least not the physical one - but found herself in too much pain to say anything. Her shoulder screamed at the motion but she clamped her mouth shut, forcing a painfully fake smile on her face.

"The Courier spoke the truth," he crowed, loudly enough for the whole silent ring to hear. "She did not cause the massacre at Boulder City!"

There was booing, and hissing, though Honey got the distinct impression the sounds weren't directed at her. It was a relief, really, although she was more relieved yet when he let her hand down. Then there was a flurry of activity as the guy with the mohawk - he introduced himself as Regis - escorted her to a tent up on the outcropping behind the longhouse. John met them minutes later, and when she was at last seated with a cup of purified water in one hand and an omelet in the other, she finally felt safe.

* * *

When she'd gone down, John's heart had nearly stopped, taking up a panicked residence in his throat. He'd been on his way in, ropes around his wrists and fenced ring be damned, when Regis had taken off, vaulting over the side of the ring to tackle Jessup and force him off Honey. He tried not to think of the way she'd lain, so still she might have been dead, in the center of the ring for five or maybe six long minutes while the Khans argued amongst themselves.

He tried not to think of the legionary's eyes as he'd watched her. Tried not to remember what he'd said about the Legion and what they would do to her.

Regis had volunteered to stand guard for them, but Honey had demurred - it was clear to John from the way she arched a brow at the Khan that she didn't yet trust him. He figured that meant another long night of trading watches, but after seeing that fight, John was too keyed up to sleep anyway.

 _She almost died._

 _But she didn't._

 _But she almost did._

The thoughts swirled around angrily, and for the first time, John found himself too nervous to pull out his stash. He kept thinking of the hundreds of Khans that had turned out for the fight, of the cheering and the laughter when Jessup had first grabbed her and pulled her into the air, legs kicking weakly, fruitlessly even as she goaded him into admitting the truth.

She lay next to him now, eyes closed and soft snores coming from her open mouth. The hand-shaped bruises around her neck were starting to fill in, deep purple and a green that made his stomach flip He wished Arcade was here - he'd know if she was likely to suffer any long-term effects from the loss of oxygen. He'd know if there was so treatment she needed. Did she need a stimpack? He didn't know.

John sighed, leaned back against the pile of pillows that had been brought to them, and pulled a cigarette from his jacket. Lit it, inhaled deeply, and then almost jumped out of his skin when she spoke.

"You gonna share that?"

He looked down and saw her, shifted onto her side, hair tossed over one shoulder, eyes tracking the motion of his hands as he pulled the pack back out. Something inside him twitched, or tingled; he thought for the first time in over a month of the pair of panties she'd left, the ones he'd stuffed to the bottom of his pack and forgotten after that night at the Wrangler. He could see the curve of her hip under the blanket, and he knew she wasn't wearing more than her flannel shirt, and for just a moment he thought he might reach out and push the blanket off to admire the shape of her thighs -

And then, thank goodness, his brain intervened and he handed her the pack and the lighter and sat back again.

She lit one, propped herself up on her elbow, and handed the pack back to him. When she inhaled, all he could see was the long stretch of her thin neck, and again he found his heart beating a bit faster, and then he thought again of Arcade.

 _What would he think of that, eh?_

 _He knows you're not a one-person man._

 _Still. Maybe I could be._

"Do you trust him?" He yanked himself back to the present, wishing she would move into a different position, one that didn't shove those beautiful tits up into the air like that. And then, mercy of mercies, she did. She sat up a bit, pulled the blanket loosely up around her, and that glorious hair settled back on her shoulders, and then she was just Honey again - his friend, his boss.

"Uh...trust who?" He took another puff for something to do.

"Regis."

John let out a laugh. "You know what's funny? I think I do. He said something to me while you were fighting."

Honey held up one finger to silence him, then fiddled with her Pip-Boy. After a moment, music began to fill the tent, a sexy, sultry number with some sugar-voiced gal singing about money. She motioned for him to go on, and he dropped his voice a bit before continuing.

"While you were fighting," he began again, "he wanted to know if you would talk to Papa Khan about the alliance with the Legion."

A shadow drifted across her face, and too late he remembered what she'd told him that night in the Wrangler, and he almost could have kicked himself. Her mother, a breeding slave. That meant one of those fuckers could be her father. She'd spent some of her childhood in the Legion camps.

"The whole thing is foolish," she said with a dismissive wave of her cigarette. "They're idiots if they think the Legion will do anything different with them. They'll kill who they want to and make slaves of the rest and they'll deserve it for thinking they're somehow different. Nobody is special to Caesar." Her voice dropped and she pronounced Caesar the way the Legion did, hard K-sound at the beginning, and he could feel the rage oozing from her.

He didn't know what to say, so he nodded. She was probably right; at any rate, she'd certainly know better than he did. His mind drifted again to Fortification Hill, to the things he'd seen there, and he sucked more smoke in hurriedly. It hurt some deep part of him to think of the slaves he'd seen, of the crucified man Honey had put down near Cottonwood Cove.

"So what do we do now?" John finally asked. His words seemed to break her out of her brood, and she looked back up at him.

"Well, first, we have to convince the Khans not to join the Legion. Even if I can't them on our side," Honey took another drag of her cigarette and stared at a spot on the floor, somewhere past her knees. Her voice was fading now, scratchy and croaking, and he wondered if she was in any pain. "I'd rather not have to fight them, too. And," she sighed, "Jessup might be a pendejo, but the rest of them don't seem so bad. No one deserves what the Legion does to the tribes they conquer."

John nodded again. "So how do we stop them?"

"I might be able to help with that." The voice came from the other side of the tent. John startled and looked at Honey, who sat very still, her eyes slightly narrowed. Regis stood there, just inside the tent, a bottle of some dark liquor in one hand and three battered coffee mugs in the other.

"Regis," he said with a nod, and the Khan took another step inside.

"Come sit then," Honey allowed, eyes darting to the foot of her pallet. Regis followed her gaze and came further into the tent to sit where she'd indicated. He crossed his legs as he sat and was that a ghost of a smile on her lips?

"The Legion will be the death of us," Regis said as he cracked open the bottle and began to pour. The first mug he gave to Honey and she eyed it until Regis poured the other two and took a sip from his own. John wondered absently just when she'd become so suspicious of poison. Or was it the Khan himself that made her so anxious?

"You're not wrong about that," she allowed, taking a sip of her own drink and wincing a little at the harsh taste. John followed suit and found that, while it was strong, the heat of it in his belly was welcome after the last forty-eight hours. He stretched and found it felt like he hadn't slept in years. The cushions under him were so comfortable, and before he knew it, he'd dropped out completely.

He awoke some time later, unsure where he was or what was going on. In the flickering lantern light, he could see Honey curled on her side, eyes closed and soft snores coming out of her open mouth. At the door sat Regis, his back to them. John sat up all the way, wrapping the blanket around himself against the chill of the desert night, and stood slowly. He walked over to the open tent flap and sat down next to Regis, who was smoking and staring off into the distance.

"Hey man," he said, and Regis turned and gave him an appraising look.

"Hey yourself," the Khan said. "Have a nice nap?"

John stretched, yawned, and sat back down next to Regis. "Sure did," he said, taking the bottle Regis offered. Half the liquor was gone, and when he took another sip, he felt it go straight down to his toes, hot and somehow filling. "D'you guys bang it all out?"

Regis nodded, a small smirk working its way across his mouth. "She's agreed you guys'll stay on for a few days, get to know the tribe."

"And what're you doing for her?" Regis turned and met John's eyes. "I mean, here she's doing all this for you and you guys, what? Almost kill her?"

"I can't guarantee that we'll fight with her," Regis answered, taking the bottle back and taking a swig. "I'm not the leader of the tribe."

"But you got the old guy's ear," John shot back. "You can help sway things."

Regis frowned. Slightly, but it was there. "It's not up to me –"

"I think it might be," John cut back in. "They know you better than they know her. They'll believe you. Besides, way you look at her, way you tried to help her back there…I think you owe her something and you haven't paid up yet."

The Khan broke the staredown first, scuffing the dirt with his shoe like a boy caught scratching his name into a tree. John could've laughed, but he didn't.

He didn't know what he'd uncovered here, but it was big.

"It was Khans who were with the man that shot her," Regis said finally. "'Jessup was there, and McMurphy. A few others. That's why she was in Boulder City, trying to track down Benny. It's why we believed Jessup at first."

The rage that coursed through John was hot, consuming. He didn't even realize he was on his feet, that his anger was going to lead him to turn the whole camp upside down until he found that lying red-haired little fuck – didn't know it until he felt Regis's hand on his shoulder, forcing him back to sitting. Frustrated, mad – The Khans'd never let him live if he slaughtered one of their own in a blind rage and he knew that, he wasn't fucking stupid – he sat back down and pulled out an inhaler of Jet. Took a long, thoughtful puff as he glowered over it at Regis. Finally, calm, he spoke.

"So what happens to him?" They both knew who he met.

"Technically he won the trial, but now that word is out, he's not going to have much of a place here. He'll leave, soon enough, and have to find a place somewhere else. We don't let cowards stay in the Khans."

"It's not enough. It's not what he deserves." Still the rage burned.

"Perhaps not," Regis shrugged. "But that's the Mojave."

* * *

Honey ducked as Regis came at her. She was slow but moved fast enough that the pool cue he swung missed her head by a scant inch, maybe inch and a half. It made a whipping sound above her, but she was already turning, resting her weight on her left leg and swinging her right foot out to catch under his ankle. She hooked her ankle around his and rocked backwards, pulling him off-balance, though not enough to drop him. He stumbled forward and she took the opportunity to stand and reach for the pool cue, her hands wrapping around the polished wood. He came with her, and when she let go with her right hand and went to punch him, he dropped it with a grin.

"You're doing a lot better," he congratulated her, and she let go of the cue, dropping it with a clap of dust into the sand. She leaned forward, hands on her thighs, and tried to slow her breathing. Overhead the late afternoon sun burned.

"Thanks," she panted.

They'd been at it for nearly two hours now, just like every day for the last week. Where ever they were, at three in the afternoon, she and Regis would drop what they were doing and he'd come at her, fighting with whatever weapons he had handy, and she had to survive. If she could beat him, she would, although that had only happened once, the day before, and then it had been because she fought dirty. After that she resolved not to throw sand in anyone's eyes during practice again.

He'd come to her, the morning after the fight, and volunteered to teach her how to fight unarmed, like a Khan. Some days he brought dull practice machetes and they used those too, and today he'd supplied pool cues. Tomorrow, he said, he'd bring a few more Khans, and they'd start training her to fight groups.

 _You're not going down without a fight again, huh, pussycat?_

 _Fuck you, Benny._ The fury she'd felt after she'd been shot had come back lately, perhaps fed by the constant activity. Now when she heard him in her head again it made her angry instead of wistful, and the rage was a solid, vicious thing that fueled her. As the bruises around her neck faded and her voice returned, she found she felt strong.

Dangerous.

Regis went to the longhouse to talk to Papa. Tonight, he'd said; tonight would be the night she'd take her case to Papa. She and John and Regis had already visited Melissa and gotten her agreement. Jack and Diane had decided to support her bid to keep the Khans from joining the Legion thanks to John, who'd taught them some chem recipes from the Commonwealth, combinations they'd never heard of before.

Honey wiped the sweat from her limbs and stretched, her muscles cooling even in the desert heat, and she felt that tell-tale prickle at the back of her neck. She bent into a lunge and darted her eyes over to the side of the ring. There, as he was every afternoon, was Karl, the Legion emissary. His eyes burned as he watched her, face impassive and merciless. She stood, gave one last long stretch, and grabbed a can of water from where Regis had left them on the ground. She met Karl's eyes and flipped the top on the can.

Holding his gaze, she took a long drink. Swallowed slowly.

 _The trick to Legion is to treat them like wild dogs. Never take your eyes off them, or they'll think they own you._

Who had told her that? He had a soft voice, a cool voice, strident. Joshua Graham, she realized. Papá.

Still staring at Karl and trying to ignore the way her skin wanted to crawl off her body when he stared back at her, she saluted him with her can.

He just stared back, and suddenly she found herself livid. How dare he watch her, try to intimidate her. She threw the towel she'd been using to wipe herself off over the side of the fence around the ring and was starting to walk over to him when someone stepped in front of her. A relatively small man, not much taller than her, with average-size shoulders, and –

It was John. Honey let out a perturbed sigh and stopped in her tracks.

"Sí?" She tried not to sound as annoyed as she felt.

"Not a good idea, sister." He knew what she was up to, and that pissed her off, too. She took her eyes off Karl to look at up John, and gave him an exasperated expression.

"I need to talk to him," she said, trying to step past him, but John dodged in front of her, an irritating smile on his face. He put his hands on her shoulders, his voice low and calm.

"Not right now," he said, and when she looked up into his eyes, she felt the air go back out of her sails. "What are you going to do? Kill him?"

"Maybe." Why did she feel like a child being scolded by her father? She glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, Karl was long gone.

"Come on," John said, wrapping an arm around her sweaty shoulder. "Let's go get you cleaned up before tonight."

She walked with him, shuffling her feet and irritated. He was probably right. Tonight they'd feast and she could make her case then.

* * *

The longhouse wasn't big enough for the entire tribe; Khans spilled out the door and across the rocky outcropping where the leaders' tents were erected, all of them clutching cups of liquor and meat roasted on metal skewers. John had never seen so many people in black leather, so many tattooed limbs and so much spiked hair. It would have been hard to make their way through the crowd to the longhouse door, except that when he left the tent a step behind Honey, the mob parted, falling into quiet whispers.

He followed behind her, and they made their way into the one solid structure. Inside was lit with guttering lanterns, and Khans stood and sat everywhere, some on the benches surrounding the long tables, more lining the walls. At the end of the room, as when he and Honey made their first appearance, sat Regis, Papa Khan, and Karl. He followed as she made her way to the front of the room, and in his pocket burned the backup evidence he'd found that afternoon.

Maybe they wouldn't need to use it, but having a little insurance never hurt.

Honey stepped forward, back straight. Regis gave her a small smile, and for a moment John finally entertained the idea that this just might work.

Maybe.

"So, cub. Regis tells me you wish to join our tribe," Papa Khan said, inclining his head slightly towards her.

"Yes, Papa." A murmur made its way around the room, and Honey raised her voice. "I would ask for a promise, though."

Papa Khan laughed. At his right, Karl's eyes seemed to narrow slightly.

"You wish to join our tribe, and yet you ask something more of us? You are brazen, child."

If being called a child bothered her, Honey didn't show it. In fact, she let out a small, girlish giggle and tossed her shiny hair over one shoulder. If there was a moment when John could have said the whole room came over to her side, it was then.

"I suppose I am, Papa."

"What is this promise, then?"

John watched her chest raise as she inhaled deeply, and then – "I would ask that you break ties with the Legion."

The room erupted. There was shouting, and Karl stood, fists clenched, eyes burning. John took one small, involuntary step forward and would have taken more, but Honey's hand was on his shoulder. That one small, brown hand pushed him back and she turned to the front table, where Regis was calling for calm. Papa Khan had one hand on Karl's shoulder, pushing him back towards his seat.

When the room had finally quieted, Papa resumed his seat and looked at her critically.

"You ask for something I'm afraid I can't give you, girl. As you can see," he gestured at the Khans glaring down at them, "my people are excited, _proud_ to join the Legion."

John watched a flinty smile cross Karl's face. He wanted so badly to reach across the table and strangle him, as Jessup had to Honey, just for that fucking _smile,_ but he thought again of the plan. Of Honey's hand on his shoulder. Of the way they'd worked it all out.

"The Khans have a long, fabled history," she began, and the room quieted around her. If there was anything the Khans loved, Regis had told them, it was hearing of their long-lost greatness. This would pull them in, would get and keep their attention. "I first heard of you from the Followers in Freeside, who told me of the intelligence and might of your people." She went on in this vein for several minutes, but John's attention drifted back to Karl, with his arms crossed in front of his chest, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. His green eyes burning icily as he watched her.

"The Legion will destroy that history," she said, and John jolted back to Honey, to the way her face lit up as she spoke, despite the darkness of her words. "They will destroy your people."

Papa Khan, for all his bluster, seemed to be listening. "That is not the bargain we have made. Karl promises me my men and women will be made legionaries, warriors again. Karl," he turned to the legionary, who raised one doubting eyebrow at her and then looked at Papa. "Is what she says true?"

"I would not listen to the profligate," the legionary said, slick and calm and John wanted to kill him. He thought again of the threat the man had made to Honey, and he could feel bones between his fingers.

"There are no female legionaries," Honey said, calm and clear. John swallowed. "Women are taken as slaves or they are murdered."

"Is this true?" Papa Khan stared at Karl, who seemed to be glistening. Was he sweating?

"I –"

"I would know!" And for the first time, Honey's voice wasn't satin and whiskey; it was cold, strong. Powerful and angry. Every eye but John's turned to her; he kept his eyes on Karl, relished the way the legionary's neck seemed to bulge a little, ropes of muscle standing out. "My mother was of the Prickly Pear tribe."

Regis cut in then, just as they'd decided he would. "We've never heard of the Prickly Pear."

"Exactly. We used to have the run of Yuma and Two Sun," she said, and though her voice was soft, every single person in the longhouse watched and listened. "My entire tribe was taken, killed and enslaved. My mother, a warrior among the Prickly Pear, was given as a prize to the Malpais Legate."

Finally, a reaction from Karl. And not a small one, either. He stood, face burning red under his dark skin, fists clenched, teeth gritted and white. "You daughter of a whore," he swore, so angry he was nearly hissing. "The Burned Man had no daughters."

"Quod si te mala. Ego sum, sed ipse et filiae," she said back, and though no one in the room could speak Latin but the two of them, John could see he knew what she'd said. And if he could see it, so could the rest of the room. The Khans may as well have been cued; suddenly there was a whisper where before there had been silence, the murmurs growing around him, and John bit back a smile. Honey stared at Karl, and Karl stared at Honey, and the whispers grew louder.

"I grew up in the Legion," she continued. It was clear from her voice that she spoke to Papa, but she never took her eyes off Karl, and neither did John. The man was dangerous, coiled as he was like a snake. "I escaped when I was a girl, thanks to the Burned Man –"

Karl spat then, his face contorted. "I should have known you were his," he said, voice low and unspooling with naked hatred. "Those eyes and that filthy goddamn –"

"Enough," she said as if speaking to Rex, and - this was the part that stunned John – Karl _did._ His mouth clamped shut with an audible clapping sound and John let out a frantic, amused little giggle. Honey turned back to Papa Khan with a beatific smile.

"To become a Khan, one must win a fight in the ring. Is that correct?"

Papa Khan nodded.

"Then I propose this: I fight for membership in the Khans. If I win, your tribe will join me in the battle for an independent Vegas. If I lose, you may join the Legion, or not. But I fight him." One hand raised, with a finger extended, and the finger pointed to Karl.

"And if I win?" The words that came out of the legionary were a growl, malicious and hateful.

Honey gave a shrug that seemed far too casual for this. In his chest, John could feel his heart hammering. _I could end this. I could pull out the book and –_

 _No, she wants to do this her way. Let her do it her way._

 _What if she loses?_

 _I won't,_ came her voice in his head, pure and clear and sweet as her name. And so John said nothing, just reached forward and took her hand in his, and she wrapped her fingers around his and gave a squeeze with her strong fingers.

"If you win, I have quite the prize for you," she said, and her voice was the same as it had been in his head. "A recaptured slave. Me."

And the bottom dropped out of John's stomach.


	20. Their Vast Mysterious Sky

Way Back Home: From Their Vast Mysterious Sky

Notes: Side effects/symptoms of traumatic brain injury include: fainting spells, mood swings, lack of emotion, hypersexuality, and an increased chance of stroke. Wear a helmet, kids. This is the end of the PSA.

Recommended listening is "The In-Between" by Sierra Hull. For this chapter or, you know, any time. Seriously.

* * *

She knew he hadn't expected her to offer herself up to Karl as an offer, a bribe, but the idea had always been in the back of Honey's mind. She knew once he knew where she came from – a child who'd been born into Legion bondage, an escaped slave – it would be too tempting for him to pass up the opportunity to best her. And when he knew the truth of her lineage?

Well, he'd fallen into the trap she'd laid and now Honey just hoped she had the skills to back it up. She didn't want to think what would happen to her if she fell back into Legion hands, if Caesar knew who she really was.

 _What_ she really was.

The whole walk to the ring she could feel Karl's eyes on her back, watching her, looking for weaknesses. With John at her side, talking to her – yelling at her, really – it should have been easy to ignore the legionary staring at her. But she couldn't. All she could feel was the prickle of his eyes watching her, the thrum of adrenaline and Med-X and her own blood coursing inside her skin, the vibration of her fingers as she thought about what was coming.

 _This's a dangerous game you're playing here, pussycat. You sure you know what you're doing?_

 _I hope so._

"What?" Honey turned, saw John staring at her. They were close to the ring now, her feet sinking into the sand with each step. He stopped her, one hand on her arm, and looked at her, eyebrows furrowed. "Are you ok?"

She nodded, swallowed. Hoped she was right.

"Well, you're talking to yourself and…you don't look right. You know, you don't have to do this. I've got…the other thing. The journal."

Honey shook her head impatiently. She wanted to get in there; the blade of the machete Regis held out to her glinted dully in the sun. She turned back to John, looked deeply into his dark eyes. His pupils were large in the darkening evening, though they seemed to glow, reflecting the fading orange sky above them. For a moment she felt something in her soften – he really just wanted her to be safe – and then the resolve came back.

"It has to end here," she said softly, taking one of his hands in her own. His hand was cool, almost as cold as Arcade's always were. The fingers were long, calloused; the nail on the ring finger was ripped below the quick, and the rest of them were grubby and dark. Something about that made her feel wistful. "He knows too much. If he gets out of here and heads back to Fortification Hill, he'll tell Caesar everything – about me, about my…plans. He's no fool."

She looked away from John for a moment and looked at Karl. He'd rolled up his sleeves and he stood at the far end of the ring, machete in hand. His face was still, eyes watchful, and he paced in a way that reminded her of a nightstalker.

"You're going to kill him." It wasn't a question, and not for the first time, she was glad it was John with her and not Arcade. The doctor could be ruthless in his own way, but John seemed more accepting of the realities of survival. She turned back to him, taking her eyes from Karl, and leaned up to brush a friendly kiss on John's cheek. Somehow she felt lighter than she had in weeks.

This wasn't going to be easy, but at least she was ready this time.

"That's the plan," she said, tossing John a wink. "He can't hurt anyone if he's dead."

John looked from her to Karl, and his mouth thinned, a flat line that said so much. He nodded, and looked back at her. "Good," he said. Then she was walking away from him, rolling her head on her neck to stretch the muscles, and the machete was in her hands.

Regis eyed her carefully. "I hope you're ready for this."

She gave him a smirk that somehow made her feel more even better about what was coming. "Don't worry," she said, raising one finger and bopping him on the nose. Regis frowned a little, then smiled, and she turned away, tossing the machete in her hand, into the ring.

* * *

Karl was on her the moment the gate latched behind her. John had known the legionary would be aggressive; proving himself against a slave – and a woman at that – was nothing to brag about, but bringing home an escaped slave would be notable. More so because of who she was to Caesar, and who she claimed as her father. He'd want to make short work of her, the better to drag her back by her hair to Caesar's tent. John watched as she took one step away from him, then another; his eyes were glued to her dancing feet. She sidestepped him handily, dancing her feet across the sand and away from the wall. He clearly wanted to box her in, to give her no escape and force her to fight back or give in. She couldn't compete with the legionary in strength and he had to outweigh her by at least fifty pounds, but it was clear she'd made this decision for a reason.

Besides, he still had the journal. If all else failed, every Khan in the camp would be down on Karl like a sack of bricks of they knew what it contained.

For now though, the legionary was angry, with the attendant stupidity that came with impatience. All she needed to do, John thought, was wear him down a bit at a time. He looked down long enough to light the cigarette he'd been holding in one hand since they left the longhouse and his eyes darted up again to the fight, to the glint of the filthy machetes in the lantern light.

Karl came after her again, sweat glistening on his dark skin, and Honey ducked away from him at the last moment, dropping her head back and dodging to one side. She threw her machete up quickly, blocking his swing and throwing him off-balance, and let out a laugh. The clang of the steel made John's heart sing, his blood race, and he thought of the combat knife in his boot. It'd feel good to sink it between Karl's ribs, to give it a little twist and watch the blood seep out. Just the thought made his blood run hot.

Honey laughed, as if something was funny, and John realized with a grin of his own that she was enjoying herself. The huffing pant Karl gave as he corrected, stumbling to keep from falling on his face proved to John that the legionary was tiring, that she was winning this in her way. The training with Regis had paid off.

"What's the matter?" Honey gave Karl a small kick in the knee and he tripped, barely catching himself before he went down. "Not having fun?" The look on Karl's face as she taunted him - eyes narrowed and mouth open as he panted – seemed to give her wings, allowed her to fly to the edge of the ring. He was tiring, faster than expected, and John felt a sick sort of joy at the way the legionary grimly gripped his weapon before heading after her again.

"Fessi?" She asked in Latin, and Karl grunted, refusing to give her quarter, lunging with his machete raised. Honey ducked under his arm as easily and handily as she had under Regis's, and kicked the back of his knee once, hard, driving him to his own knees. She said something else, but from this distance John couldn't hear it; all he knew was that it caused Karl to rally, to come at her again; likely it was in the Legion's language. That seemed to set him off, when she spoke Latin.

Karl reared up, face pulled into a vengeful leer. His machete was raised clumsily over his head, and Honey slashed him in the arm, her own blade sliding easily in the gap he left between arm and head, slicing a narrow gouge in his arm that leaked blood into his sleeve in thin rivulets.

The sight of it gave John a grim sense of satisfaction, the pleasure coursing through him and into his toes, a switch in his brain flipping as he heard Karl's loud grunt of pain. He took another puff at his smoke and watched as Karl tossed his machete into his other hand and came at her again. Honey let herself be guided back to the wall of the ring, taking one cautious step after another to make sure she didn't fall in the sand, and John watched, half-anxious and half-nodding as he watched her go.

From the way Karl moved, it was clear he thought he had her. Honey allowed herself to play it up, giving him a worried expression, though even from here John could see the amused tilt to her head. Karl pressed what he thought was his advantage, and she took step after step until her shoulders bumped the fence that encircled the fighting ring and she stopped with a glance at Karl.

When he was close enough for her to reach out and touch him, Karl swung, his machete right at her face. Honey waited almost a moment too long – John felt his breath catch in his throat – then ducked, slipping under Karl's arm and circling around him. Honey slapped the back of his head forward, adding to the momentum the legionary already had, and driving him into the fence, his arms askew. He caught the machete before it could be tossed aside and turned to face her; even from this distance, John could see the feral grin on his face, the trickle of blood where Karl had cut his face on the fence.

It was all the more striking when her machete whipped out and sliced three lines into him – one widening his already too-broad grin, one ventilating his throat, and a third neatly sawing off one of his ears. It dropped to the sand just a little faster than the rest of Karl, who slid slowly to his knees before he landed face-first in the dirt, a small cloud going up around him. She stood over him and she looked calm and collected as she tossed her machete into the dust.

Around them the Khans were quiet. Combat was a way of life for them, but John had learned that it was rare for someone to actually die in one of these fights – the worst that happened was sometimes a combatant might develop an infection and die days or even weeks later. But this…

"Whoa, man, that chick is _harsh._ " When John turned he saw Jack, the Khans' main chemist, Diane wrapped around his arm. Both of them stood still as if frozen, mouth open, staring at Honey with her hair billowing behind her and the splatter of blood across one high-boned cheek.

* * *

She actually wished the fight had gone on longer. When it was over and Karl's body was cooling in the sand, Honey found that she still had some aggression to work out, something inside her that remained restless. Everyone had stood there and stared for an eternity before someone started to clap, and then a cheer rose up. It looked like the clapping began around John and Regis, who stood near the gate of the ring, and she headed that way.

Behind her, she heard Papa Khan tell the group that they would follow the Courier now, that they'd severed ties with the Legion, but all she could think about was the way she felt as though she was soaring above the ring. Suddenly she was ravenous, and she felt wild inside her skin. She smiled at John, nodded at whatever he said, but she couldn't hear a word past the hammering of her heart, the blood coursing hot and excitedly in her veins.

"I'll be right back at the tent with something for you to eat," John said, and she nodded again, then grabbed his wrist in one hand. When she looked down, she could barely see the fine collection of blood stains that marked her hand like freckles, and John agreed when she asked him to bring some hot water.

"John…take your time," she said finally, and John looked from her to Regis, to the way she grabbed the Khan's hand and wrapped his arm around her. The look John gave her was acknowledgment if not approval.

Regis let her pull him up the hill, and when she pulled him into the yurt behind her, she could feel the heat of his body through the rough leather vest. His hands were on her in a moment, unbuckling her chest plate and slipping it off her. The smell of blood and death was everywhere, between her fingers and under her skin and in her hair, and something about that made her more frantic, more passionate. His arms were muscular and strong, and he kissed roughly down her throat, his breath hot and exhilarating; it felt like training all over again but better, a culmination of a week of hand-to-hand and the bruises he'd given her sang.

The headache was knocking quietly at the side of Honey's head, and so she busied herself in undoing Regis's buckle, in sliding his pants down to reveal the coarse hair and scarred skin of his thighs, in guiding him into her. She sat atop him, head tossed back, with his hand snaking up inside her shirt to grab her breast, and the feeling of a man inside her again was too much after the disappointment of Swank. Regis let out a sound that was half moan, half grunt, and rolled his hips and Honey steadied herself with one hand on his chest, the other on the top of his thigh. She bucked as he rocked her again, and when the flap of the tent opened and she saw John standing there she crested, falling into the headache as her climax hit.

The pain of it drove her off Regis, clutching at her head as if she'd been shot again. This was worse than she could remember it being, worse than it had been when she woke up the first time in Doc Mitchell's parlor, worse than when she'd collapsed in the research hospital north of Nellis. There was the feeling of something splitting her head, of a chasm opening in her skull, and her hands went to the crack that must surely be forming along her temple, and then the tent went dark.

It was some time later before she came out of it. This time she lay on her back, her pants zipped and her feet propped on a couple cushions. The icepick pain in the bone of her head had retreated, which meant someone must have done something, given her an injection of some sort. She glanced around the tent and saw she was alone but for John, who sat next to her, cigarette smoke looping around him. He wasn't looking at her, but rather at a book in his lap, some old and musty history tome bound in leather from the look of it. She watched him for a moment, her memory vague, and she must have made some noise because he looked up at her.

His eyes softened when he saw her watching him, and she gave him a weak smile. Why did her limbs feel so heavy?

"What happened?" John didn't seem to understand her, and the words sounded wrong. She cleared her throat and tried again, but still they sound slurred, as if she'd been drinking. She tried to adjust her positon and found her left side weak, disobedient. John was watching her, eyes dark in the lantern light, and she felt a wave of irritation in her. She cleared her throat again and spoke, and finally it sounded less like there were marbles in her mouth.

"I'm not sure," he told her, eyes traveling up and down her body. It'd be easier to deal with the fear that was trying to stab its way up through her confusion if the look had been lascivious, but he just seemed worried. Tense.

"I came in," he continued, "and you and Regis were…well, in a compromising position." He did smile a bit at that, and Honey's cheeks flushed. There was dim memory tugging at her now, from back when she was getting ready to leave Goodsprings, about possible side effects of her injury. Doc Mitchell had mentioned hypersexuality, the chance of fainting, possible stroke –

She pinched her lips shut, tried to push that back. She could handle fucking Regis, even though she didn't know why she'd done it and only half-believed it, but a stroke?

That way was suffering, that way was pain. That way lay an invalid's bed and a slow and maddening death.

 _Is that another life down, pussycat?_

 _No. It's not. I won't let it be._

The panic rose up inside her and Honey forced it down with a deep swallow; she refused to believe it was real, that this was happening to her.

"And then I passed out?" John nodded, never taking his eyes off her. She glanced around the tent again; they were alone, she hadn't been wrong about that. "I guess I scared him off then?"

John smiled back with naked relief; he'd been worried about her, and she spared a moment to contemplate how sweet that was. But it was almost time to be moving on; much as she didn't want to think about it, passing out like that reminded her that time was short. She didn't even know where to start looking for the Brotherhood of Steel, or how to get in once she found them.

"How are you feeling now?" John was still watching her, still clearly trying to assess her from the expressions on her face, from the way her eyes focused on him, on the flickering light of the lantern, on the cushions propping up her feet. She dropped them off the cushions and stretched, sitting up. Wondered how late it was.

"We should leave tomorrow."

"That doesn't tell me how you're feeling." His brows drew together as he frowned.

"Fine then, I feel like we should leave tomorrow."

The sigh he gave her was pure exasperation. "Fine then," John said, standing and shrugging heavily. "Have it your way. We leave tomorrow."

When he left the tent, Honey found she felt more alone than she had in months. It was a long time before the leather flap quit waving gently back and forth, and an even longer time before she fell asleep.

* * *

It was another two days before John felt he couldn't keep Honey still any more, before he had to let her travel or she'd likely claw his skin off. She didn't take the time off to rest, either; she'd spent much of the last two days sparring with Regis in the ring, and when he watched her now he wondered at the fact that at the beginning of the previous week she'd known almost nothing about knife fighting. She was incredibly fast, incredibly dangerous; the night before they left she won her last match against four men despite losing her pool cue early on.

He didn't want to admit it, but the way she drove herself scared him a little. They hadn't spoken about whatever it was that happened to her the night after the fight, the way she'd collapsed and been unable to move for hours. John had been afraid to ask her, afraid of the look she might give him, her brow clumsy under the scarring from the bullet that changed her life. So he didn't ask, and she didn't tell, and he spent two days in the drug den with Jack and Diane. They'd been so impressed with her performance against Karl that they manufactured a dozen syringes of Med-X for Honey and scrounged up some UltraJet for John.

The sun had dropped an hour ago - or maybe two, or maybe five - when John heard Honey's soft gait heading up the sandy, rocky passage that led to the drug lab. She settled quietly next to him, and John turned slightly to see her. She was sweaty and looked tired from fighting, but still strong.

Time seemed to be moving very slowly, and he had to remind himself it was the Ultra doing that; she took the inhaler from him and inspected it for a minute or an hour, then lifted it to her lips and took a puff. Her eyes closed and she leaned against him, head sagging heavily into his shoulder, and he wondered what damage the chem might be doing to her ruined brain. Did it matter?

It was her brain, after all.

Across the small fire, Jack and Diane were laughing over something one or the other of them had said, their words too quiet for him to hear the specifics even though their laughter was loud enough to echo off the canyon walls. The evening was growing cold now with the sun down and he took another hit of Ultra to warm himself back up, pulling the inhaler gently from Honey's relaxed fingers.

The drug had the same unappealing methane scent and taste of regular Jet but hit harder, faster, sending him rocketing up near the moon that hovered, full and bloated and glowing above the lip of the canyon. He felt as though he was lying down even though he sat up straight, and though his eyes were open they felt closed, the moon a grain of sand that rubbed at the insides of his eyelids in its golden glory.

He hadn't had Ultra like this in months, since he was back on the east coast; the taste of it was different from what he'd picked up at the Wrangler a few weeks ago, and when he looked down at the pink inhaler it occurred to him that it looked familiar though he didn't know why.

"Hey Jack?" The Khan across the fire lifted his head to look back at him, a goofy grin unspooling at the sluggish tone in John's voice. Honey's head was heavy on his shoulder, the only thing keeping him weighted to the earth.

"What's up man?"

"Where'd you guys get this Ultra? It seems stronger than what I got a while back? Did'ya change the recipe?"

Jack shook his head, and the action left glittering trails that hypnotized John so he almost forgot his own question. "Nah, man, we got this shit off a Fiend."

"What's that?" Honey shifted, her breath hot and distracting on his neck, but John felt himself crashing somehow, too soon. He looked back down at the inhaler in his hand and turned it around again. There was something about it…

"A Fiend? Our best customers. Raider gangs, and every last one of 'em a chem user. This guy came from east of here," Jack took a swig from a brown bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of one grimy hand. At his side, Diane let out a giggle.

"I remember that guy," she said, trying several times to light a cigarette and failing because she kept laughing. "Said he had to get out because the guy, the leader guy – what was his name?"

Jack snapped his fingers. "Cook-Cook! Yeah, I thought that was a weird-ass name."

"Yeah, Cook-Cook," Diane continued. "He got some new girl in his gang, a little blonde girl who brought it all in from back east."

The cold that spread through John's body wasn't so much a shiver as an all-over sheet of ice that seemed to coat all his limbs. "Back east you say?"

"Yeah, not the Capital, somewhere else. He said she lifted it off a caravan."

"That's right," Jack nodded, and John found he couldn't feel the inhaler in his hand anymore. That's why it looked so familiar, his brain hollered at him through the Ultra fog. It looked familiar because he'd stared at cases of them for months. He'd brought this same shit as far as just south of Zion before Blackbird fired him.

"Where do I find Cook-Cook?" His tone must have been harsh because they both stopped looking at him and goggled. Between them the fire crackled loudly, and a log inside collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks like glimmering stars.

"You don't want to do that, man," Jack said after a moment.

"What if I do?" The inhaler in John's hand felt brittle, and he realized he was holding it so tightly his knuckled glowed white and orange in the firelight.

"Nah, man, you really, really don't want to get involved with him," Jack said again, shaking his head slowly. Next to him, Diane nodded in agreement.

"That's some bad juju right there," she said.

* * *

They left just before dawn, the early morning sky streaked with orange and pink clouds like fingers stretching from the east, the glow of Vegas radiating in green and white around the edge of the canyon. John let Honey go first.

He'd spent much of the night drifting in an Ultra high until he felt so strung out and turned around he barely seemed to know which way was up, let alone how to get out of the Khans' camp. She'd given him an assessing look before they set out but didn't say anything, and he knew it was because she was anxious to get back on the road. He didn't even ask where they were going – to pay their respects at the Fort, or to find the Brotherhood of Steel? Instead John pulled a few chalky red Mentats from his bag and swallowed them dry, wincing as they went down his throat in one candy-colored lump, fused together with his spit, and followed her.

This early the day wasn't yet hot, and the sky periwinkle, still dotted with stars. Around them the desert was tan and beige, yellow and golden where the sun began to light it, and she headed due east as he'd hoped she would.

Cook-Cook. The name sounded ominous enough on its own, and he wished he'd had more to go on that what Jack and Diane knew, which hadn't been much.

When they reached the north-south road, Honey took a look around and paused to take a drink of water.

"I need to find someone." John hadn't known he was going to say it until the words came out of his mouth, but then he knew it was right. He was going to ask her to take a detour, she deserved to know the whole thing.

 _I have to know._

Honey looked him over slowly, from his ragged boots held together with the scraps of adhesive tape they'd scavenged a couple weeks back at the hospital and on up, and he tried to look stronger than he felt after the week-long bender he'd been on. Usually he felt stronger with the chems in his system but despite the boost the Mentats gave him, John knew he was running on fumes. He needed a good night's sleep, a week to dry out – but not now. Later, maybe.

"Who're you looking for?" Her voice had that casual tone that he'd learned meant she wanted to know something badly but figured the person she was speaking to might spook. It was weird, he thought, that after just a couple months together he felt he knew her as well as he'd known his own family.

Maybe better.

"A girl," he said finally, fiddling with his own hip bag before dropping the snap on it and meeting her clear gaze again. She'd dosed up on Med-X before they left and it was clear now that she was entirely dependent on it; without a hit in the morning and another twelve hours later, he worried she wouldn't be standing before him. "Nicole. The one from the caravan, the one who stole all that shit and took off."

Honey nodded thoughtfully. "I thought as much. You got a lead?"

John took the can of water she offered and sipped. "Jack and Diane said she might be with Cook-Cook. He's a Fiend, apparently?"

Honey took the can back, snapped the tab closed and stuffed it away. She seemed to be thinking and he stayed quiet to give her the time she needed. "Fiend territory isn't far from here," she said finally. "We can go now, on our way."

Relief and fear flooded him, and John let his breath out in a weary sigh. He found he almost hoped they didn't find her. He didn't want to think how she might be. "Thank you."

Honey gave him a small, tight smile that didn't reach her eyes, and he wondered if she was regretting agreeing to this detour. "We're partners, John," she said quietly, clapping him once on the shoulder and turning to the north.

They traveled as the sun made its way up into the sky and the sand began to turn cracklingly hot underfoot. She seemed to know where they were going so John followed her, hugging the ruined buildings as they approached the west side of outer Vegas. It was maybe another hour of picking through rubble before he began to hear the tell-tale hiss of a flamer, the chem-soaked laughs of men off to their right.

John followed her as Honey dropped into a crouch and slunk along the wall of the building. As they went the voices shifted, ending up off to their left instead, and she went down a narrow, shaded alley between two half-collapsed structures, pausing just behind a low pile of rubble.

She looked back at him one last time, and where he expected to see a confident gleam in her eyes, John saw only sympathy.

"Are you sure?" He nodded, and she turned away from him, scrambling carefully over the debris and dropping lightly to the other side. He followed, keeping close to her, and watched as she took aim with the trail carbine. She fired two shots carefully into the ruined wall ahead of them, where he could see the orange blast of the flamer licking. There were shouts, and then around the sides and through an empty doorway three Fiends came at them, all men wearing mismatched and worn armor. One of them lagged behind, the flamer on his back slowing him down, but Honey took aim again, and even from here John could see Cook-Cook's head explode in a shower of blood.

His body fell to the pavement and Honey fell back to reload. John stepped forward, his shotgun heavy and hot in the sun, and as the Fiend with the pool cue came close he fired one shot into the man's chest. The Fiend paused, looking down at the blood blooming across his chest, then fell on his face, twitching through his sudden death.

The third Fiend's neck exploded when Honey fired again, and she stood. Ahead of them the camp seemed quiet, and Honey nodded at the building ahead. They walked together, slowly, and John began to wonder what he was thinking.

Even if Nicole had been here there was no reason to believe she still was; she might have taken off, might have stolen from them too and been murdered, might have –

They came around the corner and John turned, gagging at the sight and the smell. There were the remains of people in here, charred corpses that explained the disturbingly delicious smell of roasted meat he'd smelled even from the alley.

He dropped his shotgun with a clatter on the cement floor, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, and choked, gagging and vomiting onto the pavement. There was the mostly-digested dinner from last night, a torrent of rich tan gecko meat and green cactus, and he'd have to be careful not to step in it and slip. Honey drifted away from him silently to pick through the shelf against the only intact wall, pulling out ammunition and prepackaged food.

Horrified, John wandered out of the building and into the complex beyond, his shotgun forgotten, thinking only that he had to get away, he had to find Nicole, he had to know that she hadn't died like that, scared and nameless and charred beyond recognition.

He made his way into one of the ruined buildings and leaned drunkenly against the wall, taking one stuttering breath after another and grateful for the respite from the sun that the partially-collapsed roof gave. Inside this building were bare mattresses, the white fabric of them stained red and brown and he tried not to think what they might be.

A deep breath. Then another, and a third. He tried to count to ten and got to four before he started heaving again.

He made his way back out in the sun, and ran into someone.

He and Nicole bounced off each other, and it took him a moment to realize it was her.

Her hair was gone, or at least most of it; she had two patches over her ears, ragged and baby soft and the color of cornsilk. She was skinny, skinnier than he'd ever seen a grown person, and he could almost hear the bones in her wrists click as she flailed the knife in her hand at him. Overhead, sloppy, and it gave him a long moment where he could see the angry red burn scars that traced their way over her arms and chest. Her eyes were the same though, blue and wide as the sky above, and that was when he knew it was her.

"Nicole!" He dodged, just barely, and the knife missed his ear by less than an inch, embedding itself briefly in his shoulder. He should have felt pain, but all he felt was shock, relief at finding her alive.

 _I can still save her,_ he thought dazedly as she pulled the knife back out and blinked at him.

"John?" She sounded so lost, so scared. He opened his arms to hug her, and she took one step back, scared and timid as a bird.

"Yes, it's me," he stepped forward and she slashed at him again, barely missing his chest, though he doubted the knife would have cut through the heavy leather chestpiece he wore.

"No," she said, taking another step back. Around her irises he could see a fat ring of white, and her pupils were huge, dark. He wondered what she was on.

"Yes," he tried again. She trembled.

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard you were here," he said, taking a small step forward, but then she had the knife between them again, and he paused, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. His shoulder ached but he stood still, waiting.

"You did, huh? Well…I'm not going back."

"I'm not trying to take you anywhere. I just – I wanted to see if you were okay."

She raised what was left of one eyebrow. The narrowness of her limbs made him want to cry; whatever else Vic may have done to her, he didn't get her strung out on chems and leave her to starve.

"Of course I'm okay," she said, relaxing a little. "I got a good thing going here. Cook-Cook says I'm a natural."

It took John a moment to realize what she'd said – Cook-Cook…?

"You mean – he –"

"He's my man," she said, nodding. "He takes care of me and I sell the chems when we can't just rob caravans that go by."

"Cook-Cook is dead." John's skin crawled as he said it, as he looked at the scabs that covered her too-thin arms.

Nicole stopped moving, still as a raddeer who's heard a branch crashing through the trees. "What?"

He swallowed. "He attacked us. We had to –"

"You killed my man?" Her voice was low, cracking with the effort of speaking, and her eyes grew to half the size of her face. "You _killed_ him?"

"I didn't –" But there was no time for him to say more because she came at him again with a bellow of impotent rage, the knife high and aimed for his head, his neck, his shoulder. John stepped aside, stumbling into the side of the building, crashing half into the doorway. He fell clumsily, and she fell atop him, scrambling and flailing and furious.

She screamed as she attacked him, her swings going wide, but still one made its way between two ribs under the side of his chestpiece, and pain spiked there, multiplying as she pulled the knife back out. He rolled, taking her with him, so he sat astride her, and he grabbed her knife hand despite the pain that rocketed through his side, through his shoulder.

"I don't want to hurt you," he tried, but she turned her head and clamped her teeth into his wrist. He jerked back and a bit of his skin stayed in her teeth, a thin shred of his flesh dangling there.

"You killed him," she wailed, and he fell off her as she advanced again, crawling and stabbing and screaming in agony. She was on him again in an instant, and he reacted, raising a foot to kick her in the stomach. There was power behind it, and she flew off him, back into the crumbling stone wall where her head cracked sickeningly.

Nicole fell to the ground in a heap, boneless and quiet, the knife falling out of her hand. John lay, panting, and looked at the dark spot where her head had hit.

She didn't get back up.


	21. Sunshine Enough to Spread

Way Back Home: Sunshine Enough to Spread

Notes: Sorry for the delay. This was a very difficult chapter.

* * *

Honey ran through the complex of ruins that made up Cook-Cook's camp, panting and dizzy from the motion. She heard screaming, the sounds of a scuffle, and rounded the corner to find John on the ground, bent over the girl's body, weeping into the wisps of her hair. A pool of blood formed beneath the corpse, sluggish and dark where it stained the knees of John's pants. She stood over him, trying to make out the words he was saying, but all she could get was "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over like a mantra, or a prayer.

She spent a couple hours gathering the bodies and building a pyre on the concrete pad of one of the buildings; John, sniffling and broken, sat in the corner where two busted walls came together. His eyes glowed red but he didn't cry again; instead he went to get the girl's body. From the way he lifted her, it was clear she didn't weigh much. Watching him, Honey could feel a palpable ache in her chest, a yearning that made her want to weep.

They set fire to the corpses with Cook-Cook's flamer. Honey stood next to John and slipped one of her hands into his; his skin was rough and calloused, and the squeeze he gave her was desperate. Her heart broke for him then, for the beautiful mess of a man standing next to her who she'd never seen do less than the right thing.

 _He doesn't deserve this._

 _Ain't none of us deserve half the shit the Mojave brings down on us, pussycat. You didn't deserve to get shot in the head, and you know I've never felt right about that._

 _You deserve every pinche thing the Legion's done to you. More, even. But John -_

 _You goin' soft on him, baby?_

 _Maybe. Doesn't matter, though. He's got Arcade and I – well, I've got to deal with you and the mont_ _ó_ _n de mierda you left me with._

When the fire was starting to go down and the grotesque scent of charred flesh spread across the Mojave, she clapped John on the back. The look he gave her with distant, cold; Honey flinched despite herself.

"We should get going," she said softly, gesturing to the darkness sweeping in around them from the east. "The night predators will be here soon, with the smell of the meat and all." She tried to make her tone as soft as possible, to apologize for the abruptness of it all, even though she knew she couldn't fix any of it.

John didn't speak; he nodded, grabbed his bag and his shotgun, and started walking as if he couldn't get away fast enough. Honey scrambled to follow him, for once in the rear. They walked all night, Honey chasing John and pulling him behind cover when they approached the ruins of South Vegas. She didn't know where he thought he was going, but he was marching there as if driven, taking them straight through Fiend territory without a backwards glance. When bullets started flying, he whipped his shotgun off his back and began firing rapidly, reloading inhumanly fast. The look on his face never changed, the lines of it etched deeply into the skin, and his eyes remained dark, unreadable.

Dawn was pushing back the night when she saw the 188 Trading Post ahead. Honey jogged forward, her head and feet screaming with exhaustion, and tugged gently at John's sleeve. He turned on her with the same incredible speed, the large combat knife in his hand driving towards her face.

She didn't flinch, she didn't dodge; some part of Honey found she wanted the knife to keep going, to feel the blade slice through the skin of her cheek. He stopped with the blade less than an inch from her chin, a flicker of recognition going through his dead eyes. John stuffed it back in his boot and looked at her stiffly.

"We should stop here," Honey said, gesturing to the small encampment on the overpass. John didn't nod, didn't really acknowledge her at all, just turned and headed that way, dropping into one of the stools at the lunch counter. From this distance and with her heart in her throat she couldn't hear the interaction between him and the girl behind the bar, but the bottle of brown liquid she handed him made it clear what was happening.

Honey didn't blame him.

She shuffled slowly down the hill and around the overpass to the shade created underneath. It'd be good to rest here for the day before heading on to Lake Mead.

It wasn't long before she had the bedrolls spread, a can of Cram open, and a syringe of the mystery drug from the research hospital waiting. The pain in her head was always worse in the sun, so she'd strung up some threadbare old sheets to create a privacy screen, and then she sat down, her bones aching inside her skin and teeth practically chattering with the icepick pain behind her eye.

John came sliding down the hill; she could see him in the gap where two sheets didn't quite meet, the puffs of desert sand rising up around him and a half-empty bottle clutched in his hand. He staggered over to her, brushing aside the tattered fabric of their makeshift tent, and Honey had the dizzying impression of a meadow parting, the riotous color of the flower print blanket whipping about. He took another step and collapsed next to her with a clatter, the bottle landing in her lap. He smelled of sweat and booze, and the combination with her fatigue made Honey dizzy.

"Fancy a drink?" The laugh he gave her was agonizingly bitter. Honey shook her head and gestured to the syringe before taking another unappetizing bite of cold Cram. It sat like tongue in her mouth, and she had a distinct memory of eating the same thing as a child after she'd fled the Legion but before she made it to New Canaan. The memory soured it still more, and she set aside the can with a frown, forcing herself to swallow the cold, congealed ham paste parts in her mouth.

"I probably shouldn't," she told John as he offered her the bottle again, and he shrugged, taking a long pull from it before setting it back down on the dusty pavement.

"Can't let it go to waste," he said, picking up the Cram and finishing it in two massive bites. She turned away, unable to watch him, and wrapped a length of surgical tubing around her arm. It was getting harder and harder to find a good vein, but she was able to pick out one on her hand, and she cleaned it carefully with the bottle of vodka she kept just for this purpose. When her skin was as sterile as it could be in the wasteland, she tried to unwrap the plastic around the syringe but found her fingers shaking, her head pounding so hard in the morning heat that she couldn't get her body to cooperate.

"Here, sister." John's voice tickled her ear, rough and gentle at once, and he nimbly plucked the syringe from her hand. Honey wondered for a moment if he should be handling this – she'd seen how much he had to drink – but then the wrapper was off and he was holding her hand in his. The needle was in, and then she was gone, down the black pit so deep she could barely feel the press of his lips to her forehead as he laid her down.

* * *

He was in the library again, lying on the floor between the stacks, his head resting on his jacket, a book on his chest. He must have fallen asleep. Outside it was so quiet he could hear the snow falling; inside he could see icicles formed from the balcony overlooking the main library floor and his breath came in white puffs of fog.

The book – a heavy historical tome about the Founding Fathers – was so heavy he almost couldn't breathe. It was dark in the stacks, and the half-fallen shelves around him made mountainous shapes, or perhaps they were monstrous? The words seems to drift around him, teasing. The book pressed down on him, forcing him to the floor; he struggled beneath it, trying to free himself, but it weighed more with every passing moment. He sank further into the floor, the carpet enveloping him in the smell of mildew and rot.

He blinked and when he opened his eyes, Nicole sat atop the book, scrawny and pale, hair yellow in the dim light. Her eyes were wild, filmed white like a corpse's, and her skin was patchy, peeling. Her arms, track-marked and almost nothing but bone, stretched over her head in a facsimile of sensuality that turned his stomach.

"What's the matter, John? Don't like what you see?" He realized she was naked, her chest so shrunken and narrow it made him think of a ghoul, those beautiful breasts he'd ogled months ago withered to nothing but tight little nipples. The book weighed a thousand pounds or more, all of it dead weight; his gut twisted and his balls retreated as he thought of the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd thought of her. She leaned over the edge of the book, her hands like talons, the fingernails chipped and filthy. She smelled of flame, of roasting meat.

"Why don't you give me a _kiss?_ "

Her mouth on his was dry as ashes, cold and unresponsive. Her tongue was clammy and cool; it made him think of dead fish floating in the Charles after a radstorm. The book pressed down, the weight of it so oppressive his ribs cracked, and her mouth moved against his, a moan coming out of her as her teeth scraped against his lips –

John awoke with a start, or maybe only back to his senses; there was the sound of a fire crackling somewhere off behind him, and the woman against him wasn't Nicole, wasn't dead and decaying but was Honey, half-asleep and tangled against him. He sat up, his heart hammering like a drum, and panted. He had an erection; it ached inside his pants, and he thought for a moment of Honey's warmth, there beside him. It'd be so easy and she certainly seemed willing, but – _Arcade._

John closed his eyes against the flickering of the fire against the fabric walls of their little place and willed his breathing to slow. One breath. Two. A third.

Arcade's hands, with their long fingers tangled in his curls, cool skin and knobby knuckles. The pad of fat over the muscle on his thighs. The way his eyes looked in the morning, so green and unfocused before he put his glasses on.

John could feel his heart slowing, and there was a strong hand on his shoulder, then another, and together Honey's fingers began working out the knots in his shoulders.

He thought of Arcade's smell, that unique blend of antiseptic and cactus flowers, and the way he leaned down so they could kiss, his shoulders curling and his nose bumping John's cheek. The feeling of his stubble and lips brushing against John's neck.

He leaned into Honey's hands, and for the first time in three days – had it been three days? Could it have been longer? – John could feel some of the tension drift out of him. His eyes were closed, but he could still see the orange of the fire dancing under his eyelids. There was the smell of woodsmoke, and he could feel the weight of the chems he'd taken dragging down his limbs. He couldn't remember anything since he bought that bottle from the girl at the Trading Post – there was a yawning gap of blackness where the last week should be, and he found he was scared to approach it too closely.

Who knew what horror, what embarrassment, lurked down there. It was safer to skate around the edge of that black hole, to pretend nothing could have happened.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Honey's voice was low, and John felt a twitch inside at the silk and whiskey tone. Her hands kept moving, gentle but firm, down his spine to work the muscles at his lower back.

"No," he shook his head. All at once he could smell the scent of decay, sweet and pungent, as it slid under his tongue and worked its way through his skin. Honey's hands pushed him into the book, and his ribs crushed together, grinding into a powder.

John's eyes flew open, and he darted up, away from her, panting and wild. _Just a dream. It was just a dream._

"I think perhaps you took too many chems," it was Honey's voice he heard, but when she touched him her skin felt cold and clammy, dead and peeling. John blinked and then order was restored, at least for now: her skin was warm again and it was Honey's bright eyes watching him. He tried to remember what he's taken, but there was the darkness again. Psycho? Jet? Maybe he'd mixed the two with whatever her painkiller was, and the bottle of whiskey that lay empty on the ground next to his foot?

It was her eyes that steadied him; where Nicole's had been blue and wide as the sky, Honey's were intense, like Nuka Quantum on an overcast day. He looked into them, and she looked back at him, and then he fell forward, into her arms. His mouth moved against her collarbone, and Honey let out a small laugh, her strong hands on his shoulders pushing him back.

He was stronger than her, though, and the Psycho gave John a strength he never had on his own. Her neck was a tan column of soft skin, and he kissed his way up her throat to nibble at her earlobe. She was saying something – it sounded like stop, or maybe no – but her hips moved against his, a single circular motion that sent stars shooting inside his head. Her hands pushed again on his shoulders, and he took her wrists in one hand and forced them over her head, driving her to the floor of the makeshift tent. Honey was gasping in his mouth, and she'd stopped speaking English now; he could only understand every third word. Whatever she was saying, the tone was clear.

Then, as he tugged down her pants to rub at the sensitive nub below, the fog cleared long enough for him to understand her question.

"What about Arcade?"

"He's not here," John groaned, and lowered his mouth to Honey's nipple as everything faded out again.

* * *

On the sixth day after they arrived at the 188, Honey found herself frustrated. John seemed to be getting worse instead of better; he spent his days in the tent she'd made below, coming out at sunrise and sunset for around an hour to complain of the merciless heat. He'd bought out nearly the whole supply of liquor the small shop had and drunk most of it in no time, and that was on top of the chems. Most of the time he was nonsensical, ranting about the girl – Nicole, Honey knew now – or some ghouls. Sometimes he apologized to a woman named Myrtle; other times he spoke other names, or none at all. The only constants were that he said he was sorry - again and again – and he kept shoveling more chems and booze into his mouth, refusing to sleep.

She sat on the top of the overpass on the crumbling jersey barrier, smoking a stale cigarette – as if there were any other kind – and watching the sun go down. Soon enough John would come up and start his evening routine, hassling the soldiers and flirting with the bartender's daughter. For now, though, all was quiet except for the sound of a nightstalker howling and rattling in the distance.

It had been two days since it happened, since they fucked on the dirty pavement of their makeshift tent, and Honey still hadn't figured out how she felt about it. When she thought about it, her skin grew hot all over, though she couldn't tell if it was embarrassment or longing that did it. She'd said no, she'd told him to stop, but that hadn't been for her. No, the traitorous part of her that had wanted him inside her hadn't cared what he and Arcade would make of it when he came out of his chem-haze.

She'd taken advantage of him, her loneliness leading her around by her cunt.

Honey ashed her cigarette and glared at the ground. There was the prickle of tears in her eyelashes, and when she looked up again the vibrant tangerine sun was too bright, too vivid.

"Rough day?" The voice came from over her shoulder, and Honey turned. There stood the girl who kept passing through here, eyes wide with concern, and Honey wiped her eyes hurriedly.

"I guess you could say that," she said, watching as the young woman came and sat next to her on the low wall, facing the east so they could see each other's faces. The woman looked at her steadily, kindly, and Honey realized she was waiting for her to speak. She took a steadying drag of her cigarette and tried.

"A friend of mine – he lost someone recently, and he hasn't been the same. I haven't…I haven't known what to do for him and I think I ruined everything." The tears welled over before she could stop them, and before she knew what was happening, the girl had pulled Honey into a gentle hug. Her arms wrapped around, one hand patting her back gently; she was warm in the quickly-cooling evening air.

It reminded Honey of her mamá; even the smell of the girl - roughspun fabric and sarsaparilla - was familiar, comforting. Honey leaned into her, this sad-eyed woman she didn't know, and let out a deep sigh.

"I'm sure he knows you care about him," the woman said, the fabric of her shoulder scratching Honey's cheek. Her hand traced small circles between Honey's shoulder blades, and the sigh she let out seemed to go on for an hour. She thought again of John's mouth against her throat, of the look in Arcade's eyes when the two of them looked at each other, and then the tears came out in earnest. She wept for a year, for a _century,_ hot salty tears soaking the girl's shoulder. The force of it made her head spin, made the pain in her temple pulse angrily, but she couldn't stop. She cried for poor, stupid Mercedes who just wanted to fuck her boyfriend and get high; she cried for Benny, who thought he could outsmart House and the Legion and was only clever enough to get caught. She cried for John, who thought he was doing the right thing and instead brought an immature little girl out here to get killed. She cried for Nicole, who was too dumb to figure out what a good thing she'd had, and she cried for Arcade - sweet, trusting Arcade - who would just get his heart broken.

At long last, she found she was shuddering but there were no tears left; with the well run dry it seemed like she could finally get a handle on the choking sobs that made her gasp. Red-faced and embarrassed, she pulled back, wiping her nose with one hand and plucking apologetically at the other woman's soggy shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she tried, but the girl cut her off.

"Don't worry about it. We all need a good cry sometimes." She grinned puckishly and presented Honey with a small hand to shake. "I'm Veronica."

Honey blinked and took Veronica's hand. It was calloused but the skin was soft, and the kindness of the gesture made her want to start crying again. It seemed more than she deserved. "Honey."

One of Veronica's thick eyebrows went up in an arch, and for a moment Honey thought the other woman was going to flirt with her. Instead, though, she just smiled – her teeth were so white, so pretty – and said, "That's an unusual name."

Honey laughed, a stuttering, sad little thing, but it did make her feel a little better. She nodded.

"Thank you, Veronica," she said, looking back up into the girl's eyes. She couldn't be more than twenty-two; she looked too sweet and green to be out here by herself, but the thick pads of her fingers seemed to tell another story.

"Of course. I see a damsel in distress – or, well, in depression anyway, and I have to do what I can to help."

There was the sound of feet making their way up the hill behind her, and Honey glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, there came John, sloppy with liquor and chems, the gleam of a combat knife in his hand. Before she could wonder what he was going to do with it, he stuffed it back into his boot and sashayed over to the bar, where he perched on a stool like an oversized, drunken bird, back overly straight and elbows on the bar. He rested his chin on his fists, and even from here, Honey could see he was begging the barkeep to sell him something more.

She knew how he felt; the temptation to drown herself was overwhelming, but she still had things to go.

 _I'm countin' on you, babydoll. Don't let the Ben-man down, you dig?_

"Veronica," she said slowly, an idea taking shape. "You looking for any work?"

There was a sardonic laugh in the girl's sweet voice, and Honey knew then that she could handle herself. "What kind? I kind of have some of my own responsibilities." At the bar, John was laughing, a fresh bottle of something brown in front of him, and dancing a knife between the fingers of his other hand. He saw her looking at him and winked, and Honey felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

Honey looked back at Veronica, eyes wide, the picture of innocence. "Baby-sitting."

* * *

The new girl – Vanessa? Victoria? – was nice enough, and she had a sense of humor, but she wouldn't hold him the way Honey did when the shakes set in, and when he pulled out another inhaler of Ultra, Violetta frowned. John gave her a slow, lascivious wink and clamped the inhaler between his lips. There was a rush as the Jet hit him, bowling him over and making his insides sizzle, then everything slowed down. He opened his eyes – if his eyes were open he wouldn't see Nicole, wouldn't hear the bang of Myrtle and her cat blowing up again – and Veronica was giving him an annoyed look.

"Where's Honey?" His words didn't sound right, and he knew he'd already asked the question more than once – Velveeta had told him that more than once already – but he'd forgotten what the girl in the blanket told him before. She sighed tiredly, and John felt a flicker of sympathy for her. It couldn't be easy, he thought, taking care of a guy so scared of his own demons that he kept forcing chems through his system in an insane attempt to stay awake.

If he didn't sleep, Nicole wouldn't come for him, wouldn't pull him down into the deep blackness where her ghost lingered now. He didn't need to think about the way Honey kept fleeing from him since the night he'd forced himself on her, or the thorny question of how he could have done that to someone he had sworn to protect.

The more shit he shoveled into his body, the less likely he'd be to wake up tomorrow, and something about that felt safe, like relief. Maybe he should have worried about that impulse, but he was used to it; it had always been there and if the reckless voice that told him _more, more, more_ spoke louder these days, John was still inclined to indulge it.

"I told you, she had some things to do," Valentina said, catching him before he could fall down the embankment. Honey left some hours ago, although he wasn't really sure how long it had been – when you were awake this long, time began to lose all meaning. "She'll be back soon." There was something almost soothing in the girl's voice, and John felt an impulse to be a bit kinder to her. He really shouldn't be giving her so much shit, he thought, then stumbled again. It was dark in the desert, even with the glow of Vegas to the north.

"She loves him, you know," he said, sitting abruptly on the low boulder that tripped him. Here was as good a place as any for a smoke, he decided, pulling the ragged pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He fumbled through the pack and pulled one out. Trying to light it was another issue entirely; John couldn't seem to hold his head still enough to line the flare of the lighter up with the tip of the cigarette, and finally Valencia sighed in exasperation and sat down next to him, snatching the lighter from his hand and helping him. He threw her – or at least one of her – a wink and took a long drag.

"Thanks there, sister." He eyed her carefully, trying to ascertain what she'd look like out of the ragged brown sack she wore. He squinted a bit in the dark to try to figure out which of the three versions of her sitting beside him was real, and gave her The Look. "Don't suppose you wanna…?"

Valeria – _fuck, what is her name?_ – laughed. It wasn't a very friendly laugh, though it was genuine. "You can barely walk. I don't think now's the time for that kind of thing."

"Aww, come on," he drawled, taking another drag off his cigarette and watching the stars blink above them. "If you're worried about me keepin' it up after all this, believe me, that ain't a problem."

Vanna gave a giggle that went straight to his dick. John felt it twitch, and when she leaned forward and put her arm on his shoulder he felt a shiver of excitement go through him. _Yes, yes, yes, this'll help me forget, this was the distraction I need._

"No offense, buddy, but you're not exactly my type."

"Who're you kiddin'? I'm everyone's type."

Velma – was that it? No, that couldn't be right – laughed again, and John began to get the distinct impression that she was laughing at him, that this wasn't panning out the way he'd hoped.

"I like my lovers a little more… _female,_ " Veronica said. Finally, _finally,_ the light went on for him.

"Oh, I see," he said, leaning back against the rock. That made sense; it would certainly explain the outfit. He nodded. Still, though – it wouldn't hurt to ask. He lowered his chin and gave her the most dashing smile he could manage through the haze of chems and liquor. "You sure you don't want to try driving stick just once, make sure you're right? It's not without its charms."

The force of her fist in his chest knocked John off the rock and onto the ground. John hit the ground hard enough that a rush of air came out of him at the impact, and his ass hurt where it'd met hard-packed dirt. Looking to his left, he was relieved he hadn't fallen into the cactus growing there.

"Guess not," he said, and Viola's lips twitched up into a smile. She bent over, took his hands in hers, and helped him to standing. John brushed his pants off, located his cigarette, and sat back down next to her on the large gray boulder. In the distance, the lights of Vegas seemed to dance between green and blue, flickers of red and purple and white.

"Who does she love?" Viviana – nope, that was definitely wrong – asked him. John couldn't remember who or what he was talking about, and he looked at her blankly. The girl began again, supplying: "Before you hit on me – which, what the hell, man? – you said 'She loves him, you know.' What does that mean?"

John tried to remember. He'd been thinking about fucking a girl – the memory of Honey's skin, tan and supple under his fingers rushed up at him. Honey. Honey loved that guy, the one in the checkered suit, the one the Legion had.

"Honey. She loves the guy that shot her in the head." He didn't know why he felt like it was so important to tell Victoria this. Victoria? That sounded right; that had to be it.

The girl in the hood fixed him with a doubtful expression. "Uh…who would love someone that did something like that?"

John rolled his eyes. "Honey, obviously," he told her, trying to puff on his cigarette and discovering it had burned down to the filter. He tossed the butt away and thought about getting another but navigating his pocket and the intricacies of the pack was just too daunting. "His name was Benny, and he had, you know, plans. For Vegas. So Yes Man told her to meet up with the, I don't know, Brothership of Lead or something?"

Next to him, Valencia had gone very still. "Do you mean the Brotherhood of Steel?"

That was it! And it was Veronica – he had it now! Veronica. John nodded, emphatic. He wanted to tell her that he had finally figured out her name, but it seemed to rude to admit he'd forgotten it, so he didn't.

"What…what does she want with the Brotherhood?"

He decided to go for it, to have another cigarette, and so John was digging through his pocket again looking for the pack when he realized Veronica had been asking him a question. He lifted his head, embarrassed.

"What'd you say?"

"I _asked,_ " Veronica said, sounding a little miffed, "What she wants with the Brotherhood of Steel."

John waved his hands vaguely, trying to think of the right words. It seemed important to this gal to know, and he wanted to get it right. Veronica snatched the lighter from his hand again, flipped it open, and lit his cigarette. John inhaled slowly, then exhaled the smoke even more slowly. Something about the action steadied him, or maybe the chems were starting to wear off, because when he looked at Veronica again, it seemed like he saw her more clearly for the first time. He saw the tense crease at the corner of her mouth when she asked about the Brotherhood, saw the way all the muscles in her body were tight as a spring.

"She's asking for their help," he said, a grin working its way across his face. "She's going to take back Vegas, and she's gonna need firepower. Would you…happen to know where we could find them?"

Veronica had the good sense to look surprised before she smirked at him. "You know what? I just might."


	22. Dream About Tomorrow Instead

Way Back Home: Dream About Tomorrow Instead

Notes: Fun fact: a group of alligators is called a congregation. The more you know!

* * *

Sneaking around the edges of Lake Mead turned out to be a lot easier without anyone tailing her; Honey was able to get right up to the rocky edge where water met land and work her way slowly about the bank until she found a reasonably safe space to drop her gear and pull on Loyal's rebreather. To the north she could see some lakelurks hunting; they were known for having terrible vision but excellent hearing. This far away she figured she'd be reasonably safe, especially in the dark. Overhead the moon was in its waxing phase, nothing more than a thin sliver – in a day or two, it'd be new again and there would have been even less light, but she'd already put this off longer than seemed right. And _still_ she hadn't made contact with the Brotherhood.

Maybe that was why she felt so nervous, so frantic to get into the water and set the charges; things were taken longer than they should, longer than she'd planned for. They'd spent too much time at the Khans' camp and the days she'd lingered at the 188 seemed foolish now, even if she was trying to keep John from falling over the edge.

Even now, the Legion could be mobilizing, beginning their assault of the dam. If they won there, they'd surge across the river and destroy Vegas in a frenzy of blood and panic.

The thought of it made her feel sick and spurred her on. Honey dipped her toes in the lake water and hissed softly; it was icy, and for a moment she regretted coming at night. But it had seemed necessary and not just because no one would see her – she hoped – but also because without the sun in her eyes the pain from her head had receded.

No reason to linger, then – she dropped into the water with a quiet splash and began swimming towards the beacon on her Pip-Boy. It was slow going in the dark water, and it took her a few minutes to adjust to breathing normally; the rebreather was heavy on her face, even in the water, and the idea of breathing _underwater_ was so unnatural it took her several minutes to get used to, but finally she was inhaling normally instead of holding her breath and waiting until she was desperate. At last she began to see the dim outline of the plane ahead of her, and at the sight of it she inhaled sharply.

It was massive, a monstrous piece of forgotten old-world technology overgrown with plants and half-covered in sand at the bottom of the lake. Bits of greenery wrapped around the structure, dancing in the slow current, drifting beautifully upwards. Overhead it was starting to get light; perhaps morning was already nearly here. She'd have to hurry if she wanted to make it back to the 188 before it got too late in the day.

Finding the right places to put the charges was no easy task; Loyal had said under the wings, but she barely knew what those were, and in the dark at the bottom of the lake it was difficult to see. She considered briefly turning on her Pip-Boy light and then nixed that; it might draw the lakelurks to her, and with nothing more than a combat knife to defend herself she'd have a hard time fighting them off. It didn't help that she'd left her armor on the bank of the lake either, but it was so heavy it would have dragged her down and she hadn't known if she should risk it.

So Honey worked steadily, half by feel and half by the dim light that filtered through the lake water, and secured the charges to the spots she thought Loyal had indicated on his diagram. It was slow work, wrapping the twine around the wings of the plane, swimming this way and that and cutting it with a knife. When they were secure she continued across the lake towards the new beacon on her Pip-Boy. She surfaced suddenly, too quickly, and nearly suffocated in the morning air. The rebreather's buckles stuck and her fingers were slippery with water, and she fumbled drunkenly, head pounding from the lack of oxygen, splashing dangerously and then –

There! It dropped off her face, and she took a deep breath, glancing around. The rebreather, heavy as it was, began to sink, and she grabbed it with one hand as she looked around. She stood on a ramp; ahead were cazadores buzzing, and Honey dropped into a crouch, lurking and shivering in the cold water. She watched them fly aimlessly for a couple moments before she decided they were far enough away not to pose a threat.

Walking up the ramp while staying as low in the water as she could took a long time, and Honey gradually splashed her way up the ramp; she already knew about the cazadores and lakelurks, but who knew what other hideous mutations waited near Callville Bay to rip her apart. Without armor and with nothing more than a knife to defend herself, slow and careful seemed the way to go, so she put one tedious foot in front of the other despite every nerve in her body willing her to be anywhere else. Finally, at the top of the ramp, she pulled the detonator out and turned.

Carefully, glancing up at the buzzing cazadores over the ridge, she hit the button. There was a muffled explosion and bubbles rushed to the surface, spreading out in fast ripples that lapped the rocky edges of the lake. Honey looked back at the ragged building to her left – was one of the cazadores closer, heading her way?

She looked back at the lake just in time to see the place surface; it was majestic, like a huge bird, and the sight of it took her breath away. She stood there, gaping at the rusted and silvery wings of it, and so when the cazador's stinger went into her, it took her by surprise.

It didn't seem there was any venom in it, because Honey was still standing, but it hurt almost as much as getting shot had. She'd forgotten that in the years since her first sting; the force of it knocked her off balance and a wordless curse slipped out of her mouth. Honey turned, pulling the combat knife from her belt in a jittery motion, and sliced the air that buzzed beside her, wobbling a bit on her feet. The mutated bug hovering nearby darted forward again, but this time she was ready. She dodged easily, thinking of the time she'd spent training with Regis; she just had to keep moving, keep calm. She slashed out with her knife and caught the insect again, wincing with disgust as she felt the blade sink deeply into the creature's body. Black ichor splashed up over her hand and she bent over to retch as it dropped to the ground.

When Honey looked up, it seemed the others were drifting closer, the buzzing of their wings louder than was entirely comfortable.

Shrinking down into a huddled position on the ramp, she watched the insects' frenzied buzzing; they definitely were coming closer, and that left her with two options – retreat across the bank of the lake and hope they didn't see her, or pull on the rebreather and go back across the lake, taking her chances with the lakelurks splashing their way into the water to hunt for fish.

Honey squinted at her discarded gear on the far side of the lake and spared a moment to curse Loyal and his stupid fucking detonator that wouldn't have worked over there. She would've felt safer setting it off from the other bank, where she'd left her things, but there was no point in getting worked up over it now. It was the cazadores that made the decision for her; they flew closer, rotating in circles around each other, the drone of their wings echoing off the rocky edges of the lake. Honey strapped the rebreather to her hip and began making her way slowly up the coast to the north, eyes scanning the water for the telltale bubbling of lakelurks underneath.

* * *

Hidden Valley, as Veronica called it, didn't look like much. John didn't know why he was surprised; super-secret organizations like the Brotherhood of Steel seemed to be known for subterranean lairs that didn't look like much from the outside. Or at least, so he'd read in the few detective novels he'd borrowed from Nick.

Fuck, that felt like forever ago; it was practically a lifetime since he and Nick had sat together outside Power Noodles, John slurping up a bowl of starch while Nick waxed poetic about the books he remembered from before the war. The look Nick had given him when John returned from a scavenging trip to the library with some of the mentioned titles had been worth the dustup he'd had with the raider gang outside.

A momentary pang hit John, deep in his chest, as he thought of that; it was hard to believe he was half the fucking country away. And thinking of Nick brought him back to Diamond City, and Martin, and the ghouls. To Myrtle Stanton, and Nicole, and Vic, and –

He pulled the Jet inhaler from the inside pocket of his heavy jacket and took a short, sharp puff. There was the smell of stale brahmin farts and then he was floating – just a bit, not enough to be impaired, but his feet were an inch or two off the sandy ground. It was safer up here where nothing could make him remember all the people he'd tried to help.

All the people he'd failed.

Veronica was ahead of him now, and he marveled at her speed and surety. Maybe people who'd lived out here forever were able to handle the heat, but John's skin was hot, slick with sweat and red from the sun. It was nuts how these people could run around the desert sun and summer heat and barely seem perturbed by it.

Maybe some mutation from after the bomb, he mused vaguely as he put one foot in front of the other and followed her deeper in the valley. Even though he was floating nearly six inches off the ground now, his feet seemed to be hitting something solid, and it took him a minute to remember that he was fucking _high_ and wasn't _actually_ floating. It was a trick played by his brain, a hallucination.

That brought him down to earth a bit, ironically enough, and not a moment too soon. There was the rustle of something large in the spray of yellow desert grass, and then a burst of movement as a trio of radscorpions attacked. John's shotgun was in his hand in a moment, but Veronica was already in the fray, punching the closest one with the powerful metal fist she wore – and was she _laughing?_

No, that definitely wasn't another hallucination – she _was_ laughing. It sounded like she was really enjoying herself, in fact. John found himself smiling, surprised at the way the expression made his cheeks ache, and began firing into the heavy carapaces of the farthest radscorpion as Veronica turned to the next one. John's shots hit home, blasting the tail off the thing, and it collapsed into the grass. Veronica giggled as she took a step back from her opponent, dodging an attack with the stinger, and John reloaded his gun just into time to turn and fire abruptly behind him as another of the huge yellow insects emerged from the grass.

When he turned back, Veronica was smiling at him, dark eyes glinting in the recesses of her hood. "You know, for someone who drinks too much and takes _way_ too many chems, you sure can handle yourself in a fight."

"Careful there, sister," John said, a touch of irony in his voice, and a wink at Veronica "That _almost_ sounded like a compliment."

Veronica's cheeks pinked and she smiled, then turned and jogged around dune – or was it a small hill? John followed and found the girl tugging open a door on the other side. John had a moment to think of a scrap of a children's book he'd read once, where a little girl went to a magic land with perpetually-late rabbits and food and drink that made her larger and smaller, and then he followed her into the bunker.

It was dark inside, and it took his eyes a minute to adjust after the glare of the desert sun, bright lights dancing inside his eyelids. More interestingly, though, was the fact that it was cool – after the intense summer heat outside, he shivered as the sweat on his skin dropped in temperature. Veronica, of course, seemed completely unaffected; she ran down the stairs and opened an enormous hatch on another door, leading him into an even cooler, larger room with another door at the far wall. Enormous metal crates sat haphazardly in the room and a layer of dust on them. A light shone on the far wall, brightly enough that as his eyes adapted, John could see a clear path through the dirt on the floor.

If the Brotherhood of Steel really was hiding down here, this outer room didn't much show it.

"Hold on. I've got this," Veronica said as they approached the far door. He made a show of gesturing her forward, a great leap and a bow as if he were one of those fancy knights from an old holo, even doffing his cowboy hat. When she giggled and walked up to the door, John took a step back, leaning against one of the crates as she pressed a small red button on the speaker box to one side.

At this point, he was just glad to be out of the sun; the chill of the room seeped into his shoulder where he rested against the cold metal box, and it felt heavenly, better than any chem, at least for now.

Veronica winked at him and spoke to the loudspeaker, keeping the red button depressed. "'I'd like a large atomic shake and a double brahmin burger," she teased. "And easy on the agave sauce this time!"

There was an audible click as she released the button and there was a long silence, yawning like a sigh, before the loudspeaker crackled and a tired, annoyed voice rang out. "We gave you a password, Veronica. It's for your safety."

John smirked as Veronica rolled her eyes. Clearly not the first time she'd pulled this shit. The gal was feisty, and John liked that. The wasteland was full of dour assholes; it was nice to meet someone who wasn't.

Something told him she was the only one he'd find in this hole in the ground.

"I know where you live, Ramos," Veronica quipped, and John stifled a guffaw. If they all lived in this bunker, that seemed like it would be pretty obvious. "Open up."

This time the sigh came across the loudspeaker, only slightly muffled by the sound of the hasps on the door releasing, and with a whiff of oil it slid open smoothly. "For Pete's sake, Veronica. Opening up." Another sigh, and the man spoke again to grudgingly say, "Welcome back."

Veronica glanced over her shoulder at John, adjusting the heavy bag of supplies she'd brought - "A peace offering," she'd said, and hadn't _that_ made him feel welcome? – and stepped through the door. John followed, a few steps behind in case there was trouble, although there'd be no escape if the Brotherhood's greeting was less than friendly. The moment he cleared the doorway, the door closed up tightly behind him. There was another door, more stairs, and then a smaller, empty hallway.

He was in the bunker now, and as the guard – Ramos, he guessed – stepped out of his office, John found he'd never felt more out of control.

It wasn't a good feeling.

Ramos stood easily six and a half or maybe even seven feet high, although at least some of that height was probably owed to the tank he moved around in. John had seen one set of power armor before, or at least a partial set – the frame, a leg, the torso, and a helmet. Aside from the helmet, Ramos wore every piece, a massive laser gun strapped to his back, and a sour scowl that deepened when he saw Veronica had brought company.

The guard looked at him carefully, and John found his fingers itching for the inhaler of Ultra in his pocket. That didn't seem like a good idea; he settled for resting his hand idly on his hip and leaning into an exaggerated façade of relaxation. Big dogs like this tended to back down if you didn't look scared.

"Listen up," Ramos began, clearly unimpressed. "I'm in charge of security around here, and I can't say I'm too happy having an outsider waltz around."

"Don't worry, brother," John grinned, fingers dancing on his hip as he thought of that inhaler again. "I ain't much of a dancer."

This time it was Ramos who rolled his eyes. "Since you came in with Veronica," he continued heavily, as if this pained him, "I'm inclined to cut you a _little_ slack. Just… _behave_ yourself and we won't have any problems, okay?"

"Don't worry, Ramos, I'll keep him in line," Veronica said perkily, eliciting a long-suffering sigh from Ramos. John found himself suddenly desperate for the bathroom, a private place where he could pop some Mentats or take a quick huff of Ultra; something told him getting through this visit was going to be more tedious than he expected.

* * *

The sun was starting to go down again when Honey decided she'd hid in the shack near the water long enough. She'd been lucky enough to find it just down the bank from Callville Bay, and inside had been a boon – snacks, a bed, a working radio, even a syringe of Med-X and a bottle of tequila stuffed in a footlocker under the bed. The only thing that bothered her was the poster of a half-naked girl tapes to the ceiling above the bed, but when she laid down and closed her eyes she didn't have to see it; with a weary sigh she'd taken a nap, had a bit to eat, and as the sun went down she dosed herself with the medication.

She stood at the doorway for several minutes, half-listening to Mr. New Vegas announce something about Hidden Valley and the Black Mountain Radio station, trying to decide if she should leave some caps for whoever owned the shack.

Eventually, the thick coat of dust on everything decided it for her; whoever had lived here wasn't coming back, and so she picked up the battered rifle sitting on the shelf in the back. There were two cases of ammunition, so she took those as well, stuffing them in her pockets after she loaded the gun. She considered testing it out, to see if it was inclined to jam, but with so little ammunition and no idea what creatures the sound might attract, it didn't seem wise.

The bottle of tequila was small enough to fit in her back pocket, so she took that as well, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes in her shirt pocket. On the table by the door lay a bottle cap unlike any she'd seen before; a Sunset Sarsaparilla with a blue star on the underside.

 _Hey baby, while you're stealing, might as well take that, too. Could be worth something._

Benny, the proverbial devil on her shoulder – she took the cap and shoved it deep in a pocket, trying not to think about the fact that Mercedes would have taken everything that wasn't nailed down, and maybe even a few things that were, and here she felt bad lifting a few things just for basic survival.

 _Things change._

Outside the shack, night was falling. The door swung shut behind her, quiet in the evening still. Off to the west the sky blazed brightly with sunset, the last bits of daylight glinting off the hard carapaces of the lakelurks in the dark water before her. Honey stood frozen as she tried fruitlessly to count them, but the vast waters before her only showed shell after shell; it hit her suddenly just how exposed she was, how dangerous her little jaunt this morning had been.

The sight of the mutated creatures moving in the lake made her stomach turn; there were just so _many_ of them, writhing as they fed on something, and Honey turned her head away. She faded back against the building and moved slowly up the incline, trying to keep out of sight. There was the sound of splashing and growling from the beasts in the water and she took one step, then another, then a third until the wriggling crush of carapaces seemed more distant. Hunched over, the stolen rifle clutched in her sweaty, nervous hand, Honey began making halting progress up the side of the lake to the west. Somewhere there in the deep darkness that spread around her, making her jump at each sound of water splashing, would be a bend that would take her back south again on the other bank. She could collect her gear and go back to the 188 to wait for John.

She just had to make it there.

And if it wasn't for the indignant shriek of a mole rat as she stepped on its tail – in the dark she hadn't realized she'd wandered atop its den – she might have made it.

But there was a scream from the rat, which turned and clamped its oversized teeth into her ankle. Honey yelped, and jumped, the rodent's teeth stuck in the leather of her boot. It swung back and forth, screeching at her as she flipped the rifle around in her hands and used it like a club. The first swing missed, the rat chittering angrily at her, and she could feel the blood beginning to well up inside her boot. She planted her left foot firmly on a rock, lifted her right, and kicked the rat in the face. It shrieked, the indignant wail echoing off the water, and she swung again, this time hitting it in the mouth.

There was the crunch of bone as the rat's skull shattered; its body went flying off into the dark, landing somewhere in the distance with a quiet thump. It was the sound of splashing, though, that drew Honey's attention. She scrunched as low as she could to the rocks of the shore, glancing over her shoulder. In the encroaching gloom she couldn't see much, but she could hear the wordless calls of the lakelurks to each other, and there was the sound of their heavy feet as they came ashore.

Honey winced, rolling her ankle. It didn't want to hold her weight; when she tested it on a rock it buckled, and she let out a gasp at the sudden burst of pain. Had the rat fractured her ankle bone? As strong as their jaws were, it wasn't unheard of for something like that to happen.

So she had two choices – she could fight the lakelurks as they approached, picking them off one by one with shots from the rifle. It was getting very dark now, so she'd had trouble seeing them, and holding still seemed like a good way to get cornered, and she had very limited ammunition. When she ran out, she could try to keep up with the combat knife in her other ankle and by using the rifle as a club.

Or she could run – she could trust the ankle that didn't want to hold her, despite all her misgivings about it, and take off, hoping to outrun an army of hungry, angry monsters. She could run and run even though she had no idea what awaited her in any direction except the water.

 _You can stay put and get eaten, or you can run and get eaten. Either way, sound like you're what's for dinner, pussycat._

It was the icy grip of panic around her throat that made the decision for her; there was another call by the lakelurks, closer this time, and she realized just how _close_ the things were. Before she could give it any more thought, Honey launched herself into the air; she pushed up off the ground with her good foot, flying over a large rock. She landed hard on the right one, gasping again for breath as it rolled, and her head smacked against another boulder. The rifle went flying, bullets scattering out of her pockets, but she was up, scrambling for purchase with fingers caked now with blood and dust.

The screams of the lakelurks echoed in her ears, but some old memory took over. Suddenly she was Mercedes again, a reckless, small-minded courier who trusted her ability to run through Sloan despite the horrors that patrolled that corner of the desert. When she righted herself again, it was with a trickle of blood on her cheek, leaking sluggishly from the reopened scar tissue on her temple. She took off again, but this time her feet seemed to know what to do.

The weak one threatened to buckle again, but her hands took over, pushing the wall of the rock to her right, forcing her back onto her left foot, and now she was _running,_ really _running,_ picking up speed –

Honey's breath burned as she ran, heaving gasp after gasp, and yet the longer she ran the more it seemed to even out, the less her lungs ached. Her ankle held – Dios arriba, ¡qué milagro! – and with each step it seemed stronger, and her speed picked up.

Chasing her, reverberating off the rock around them, were the frustrated wails of the lakelurks. But it wasn't that sound that made the panic resurface; lakelurks were strong but relatively slow on land, and even in large numbers she stood a fair chance outrunning them if she came across someone who could help her.

No, it was the vibration of a giant clawed foot stamping that shook her, and a roar that sent icy tendrils of nervous sweat from her hairline and down her spine. If it wouldn't have slowed her down, she would have taken the tequila from her pocket and chugged it, but now she'd need to run even faster - there was another roar, overlapping the first, and a third, and then a _chorus_ \- and even the lakelurks had stopped following her. Honey could hear the splashes as they retreated into the safety of the water, and she wanted to follow even though she knew it would be the death of her. _Dios mio, they're coming, they're getting closer –_

There was the sound of heavy feet coming over the ridge and Honey changed course, hugging the water, pushing her whining ankle and screaming lungs because there were deathclaws behind her, they were too fast and their reach was too long. She could hear the air whistle as one of them got closer to her, the sound of its claws singing in the night air, and she ducked and swerved, half-doubling back as though there was safety where the creatures had come from and not more death.

As she turned her ankle buckled and Honey collapsed, and it was a lucky thing too because the closest monster missed her again. She rolled, the dust of the desert floor rising in a cloud around her, and there was the sound of more scaled claws hitting the ground around her, of deep breaths in massive chests. The leader roared again, stamping its massive foot so hard that her body bounced against the ground; she couldn't help herself and let out a whimper.

The sound seemed to drive them into a frenzy, or maybe it was the scent of the blood that squished in her boot and caked dirt to her fingers. It was at this moment that she realized they were white, the lot of them, and even from her place on the ground, Honey could see the way the deathclaws' eyes were filmed over.

 _They're blind,_ she thought wildly, and it was then that she realized she might still have a chance here.

One heavy head lifted towards the sky and there was an almost deafening sniff; the deathclaw's lungs were so powerful Honey could feel an eddy form around her. The creature tilted its head, eyes rolling, and took a step away from her.

She wanted to wait for a better moment but she didn't dare; if she waited she might lose her chance, and even so it was a gamble. The chance of outrunning a congregation of deathclaws was too small to consider, not if she wanted to be successful. Honey threw herself to her feet and took off into the darkness to the west, following the curve of Lake Mead's rocky coast, trying to ignore the way her battered ankle popped and groaned. She took off despite the sounds of bodies turning to follow her, the vibration of their clawed feet on the rocky soil, and a prayer she thought she'd forgotten cycled through her ruined mind.

 _Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos,_

 _santificado sea tu nombre,  
venga tu reyno,  
hagase tu voluntad,  
asì en la tierra como en el cielo._

* * *

"I'm sorry, my boy, but I'm afraid we simply can't get involved." Elder McNamara looked genuinely apologetic, but nothing about his expression did anything to quell John's frustration. He'd explained what was happening on the ground for Elder Shit-for-brains but no dice; the Elder was still worried about some old bullshit that happened at Helios One, whatever that was. John had tried explaining what the Legion would do if they made their way down here, the way they'd overwhelm the Brotherhood's – admittedly impressive, if small – forces; the Elder had smiled bloodlessly and said he'd like to see them try.

"No, you wouldn't," John had told him darkly, and Veronica had nodded, her face worried.

And now they were here and the finality in the Elder's voice was so frustrating John wanted to spit. He would give it one last try, he told himself, and then if they wouldn't help him, he'd leave and head back to the 188. No point in spending all fuckin' night trying to get a bunch of tin can assholes to help out if they didn't want to, no matter how helpful they'd be if they got their heads out of their asses –

He had to stop there before he lost his shit.

"Please, Elder," he tried again, for the last time. "Fighting the Legion is the only way to save Vegas, and we could really use help like yours –"

"I said _no._ " The Elder's voice was calm but his eyes glittered; for a moment John could see the strength of steel in them. A thin smile appeared and then, as if he thought he was being somehow helpful, "I do have some work, if you're looking…"

John let out a stuttering grunt of disapproval and turned on his heel, waving his hands in the air as he left the room.

"I hope you all like wearing fucking slave collars then," he hollered over his shoulder, his temper getting the best of him. The words echoed off the metal walls, bouncing back at the Elder and John could practically feel the disapproval rolling off the man as he made his way up, up, up, and out of the bunker. The other Brotherhood soldiers he passed stared as he went, although whether it was because he was an outsider or because of the way he stormed up, he didn't know or care.

Hidden Valley may have been called that because it was just off the main road, but it was a lyric-sounding name and turned out to be beautifully poetic as the sun went down, with long shadows and beams of light issuing around the mountains in which it was nestled. The wind was picking up, and John had to hunch in a small circle to get his cigarette to light.

Inhaling made him wonder if he'd been too hasty below, a worry that was cut short when Veronica's voice came from next to him. John jumped nearly a foot, knocking his cigarette into the wall of the bunker so the cherry went flying off into the wind. He groaned, curling inside himself, and re-lit it.

"I said I'm sorry!" Veronica looked it, too, in a way McNamara hadn't; her eyes were large and soft, her brows angled downwards. She looked as if the rejection from the top had been physically painful, and John felt a pang of sympathy.

"It's not your fault, sister." And it wasn't, and she should know he held no ill will towards her.

"Still, I would have liked –"

He'd offer her some Jet, but there was no way she'd take it, so he settled for leaning in and giving her an awkward, one-armed hug. And speaking of Jet, the Ultra inhaler was in his hand in a minute; he sucked in a long puff, coughing a bit as the chem mingled with the cigarette smoke in his lungs, then caught himself. Took another hit to make up for the first.

There was the tingle in his limbs again, starting in his fingers and toes and working its way up his extremities to nestle in the stem of his brain.

"'I just wish they'd stop hiding," Veronica burst out, and the sound of her frustration tethered John back to the present, to the windy valley in which night was quickly falling. "We're going to die down there if we don't change things."

John wasn't sure if she was talking to him or herself, but it didn't matter; he pulled her in again, giving her a real hug this time, with both arms. She resisted a moment, as if scared he might try something she didn't feel comfortable with, but after a moment the small woman was leaning into him, and John rubbed between her shoulder blades gently.

"You can't save everyone," he told her, or maybe himself. He could feel her head nod against his shoulder, and then stood together like that with the wind whipping past for a full minute before she pulled back, wiping her eyes.

"We should probably head back to the 188," Veronica said, her voice shaking so slightly he almost didn't notice.

Almost.

"Lead the way," John said, pulling his hat off and gesturing with it as he'd done earlier. The laugh she gave him was a little weak but still genuine, and so they headed back towards the main road, John with his shotgun at the ready and Veronica telling him a story she'd read as a child about a bear and a honey pot.


	23. So When I Wake Tomorrow

Way Back Home: So When I Wake Tomorrow

Notes: Can you find the blink-and-you'll miss it Buffy reference?

Also: I won a cover for this story from bugsieplusone on tumblr. I hope you enjoy it. I think it's neat!

* * *

Veronica fell into a quiet funk as the two of them got closer to the 188. John tried asking her questions every so often, but the – former? – scribe had her face set into a sad frown, the lines of it different from any expression he'd yet seen her wear. The way she scuffed her boots in the sand, the arid air of distraction that hung about her like a coat, the dull gleam of her eyes – Veronica was _hurting._ He wished he could convince her to take a hit of something – Jet always made things burn a little brighter – but instead he stayed silent beside her, trying to understand the way she stared at the darkening mountains in the distance.

Back at the hanging sheets that passed for a tent, Honey was still gone. Coupled with the uncertainty in Veronica's voice, the absence of his boss made a hard tangle of uncertainty in John's gut; he'd thought she'd be back by now. Lake Mead wasn't far away.

He sat down on his bedroll and looked at Veronica out of the corner of her eye. She'd taken her responsibility to keep an eye on him for Honey pretty seriously; he should be annoyed at the woman for thinking he needed a damn babysitter in the first place, but really – _well, I've been a right mess the last couple'a days._

 _Still. Something bad happened,_ he thought, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke between the hanging sheets, away from where Veronica was curled up on Honey's bedroll. Her back was to him; between them, the small fire he'd started crackled inside a charred metal ring. The heat of it was delicious on his skin. Funny thing, the desert: during the day all you could think about was finding somewhere cool to hide from the sun, but at night it got almost as cold as the Commonwealth. Fast, too – there'd been a couple nights he'd been shivering before the sun disappeared behind the mountains to the west.

Veronica's breathing evened out, and John realized she was sleeping. _Probably pretty damn tired; losing your whole life can do that to you._ Given the few things the girl'd said on the way back from the bunker, it seemed like this had been the last straw for her. Arguing with the Elder for who knew how long about modernizing, about opening up to the world and this was the hill she chose to die on. Another surprising girl, but the Mojave seemed to be full of them.

John took another long drag, staring up at the cracked concrete of the overpass above, listening to the sharp snaps of the campfire. He lay there for a long time listening to the soft breaths of Veronica's sleep, the flickers of flame, the laughter that came from the men at the NCR outpost above. He thought about taking another hit of Jet, but the thought of heading up to seek out more booze niggled at the back of his brain, insistent and tempting.

Eventually John gave up on sleep. He slowly got to his feet, trying to stay quiet to let Veronica sleep, and made his way to the small bar. The girl was gone; instead her father stood there. As he saw John approach, the old man's face pulled into a frown.

 _Back atcha, buddy._

It wouldn't hurt to try to be nice – would it? John forced himself to smile, and he clambered onto a stool.

"You got anything with a kick in it?" Still, the man frowned. John tried to keep from matching his expression and felt his smile turn into a grimace. That was definitely not going to help, so he dropped it, though his cheeks still felt a burn in them where they'd stretched unnaturally wide.

"I got beer," the man said. Where the topic of beer usually made people happy, he looked almost angry about it.

"Anything else."

"Directions to anywhere else." John let out a low whistle; that was a pretty good one. Stung a little.

"I'll take a beer then," he said. There was a hiss as the man opened a brown bottle, and then it was in his hand.

"Ten caps," from the bartender. John counted them out for him and slid them across the counter. The man disappeared with a slouch and a scowl. Not very helpful. John spun on his stool, beer in hand, to face the mountains to the west. The sun would be coming up soon, and he really should be thinking about getting some sleep, but his brain bounced between worrying about Honey and trying to figure out what Veronica should do next.

To his right sat a small group of NCR guys – or so he guessed from what looked like desert-brown uniforms, helmets, masks – laughing and drinking beers identical to his own. The three of them had likely been there for a long while, based on the way they all slumped at the picnic table and the way one of them couldn't stop hiccupping.

"Who – hic - was it that patched your – hic - leg, Jiminez? Didn't think – hic - you'd be walking again a – hic - _any_ time soon." The youngest guy, closest to John, flashed a nice smile to his friend, all even white teeth in dark skin. Something about the angle of it made John think of Arcade, with a pang deep in his gut. He took a swig of his beer and let his eyes wander across the dark desert, only half-listening to the guys.

"Oh, man, it was Alvarez, up near the Grab-n-Gulp."

"She's a fox," came from the third guy, whose voice was a deep rumble at odds with his slight frame.

"Yeah – hic – she sure is. Shame she – hic – ain't NCR."

"I dunno," Jiminez slurred, "I could see joinin' up with them, you know, when my tour's over. I bet I could be a doctor." And with that, the guy passed out on the table.

John smirked a little, watching the young guy collapse, listening as his friends giggled. A minute later, the two who were still awake got up and heaved their friend up from the table, taking him over to a small metal shack across the overpass.

He watched them go, the two stumbling as they dragged their friend over the broken pavement, and took another sip of his beer, and wondered about Honey.

* * *

Camp Golf was not what Honey had expected. She hadn't known what to expect when she saw the shape of a massive building looming before her, improbable and welcome. The deathclaws' breath was hot behind her, with the smell of rotten meat and decay, and for all she'd known the building before her was a dead place teeming with ferals and super mutants.

Still, it was a chance she'd had to take, with the monsters chasing her coming ever closer, her ankle buckling, and a burning desire to not be eaten. So the shock she'd felt when a bullet went whizzing past her ear and into the white, leathery neck of the deathclaw behind her was real. For a moment the world turned upside down and she remembered the way the first bullet had stung when it grazed her temple; for a moment she thought she'd been stung by something. A radscorpion?

And then she'd seen Benny's face and known.

Then the world had turned around again and she'd realized what was happening; finally, at last, _someone_ was helping her. The thought had given her new energy, new fire, and her feet had sped up on their own, carrying her to the open gate. She'd run the rest of the way to safety in a weird half-crouch, her arms over her head to protect herself from any stray rounds. She hadn't been able to hear any of the rest of the bullets over her own labored breathing, but the NCR Rangers took out the whole congregation that had followed her for miles.

The next day when Chief Hanlon took her out to the balcony to make his pitch, she was able to see where the deathclaws had fallen; dark spots colored the sand and rocks outside the gates where they'd been shot. The bodies had been disposed of and the blood had dried in the hot Mojave sun, but the ground was still marked.

This was the place where Honey almost died. Again.

 _How many lives is that now, pussycat? You're startin' to run a little low._

Chief Hanlon looked about how she'd have expected him to, if she'd given it any thought. He'd won the Battle of Hoover Dam, Joshua had told her months ago in Zion. The memory of that place, the confusion of meeting the man who had fathered her, broke her concentration for a moment, and she looked down at the yard. Soldiers training, most of them getting the maneuvers wrong. Not exactly the first line of defense she'd hoped for when she'd realized where they were and how close the Legion was.

"I thought you'd be taller, or bigger muscles and all that. You're pretty spry, though," Hanlon said, and Honey dragged her eyes back to him. A weathered face with a surprisingly full beard. Graying hair, and a voice that made her think of lemonade and an easy chair. He sounded like he should be sitting outside the Goodsprings Saloon with Easy Pete, not in charge of a military outpost this close to the Dam.

He didn't sound like the man who took down the Malpais Legate.

Honey shrugged and took a sip of the coffee he'd given her. Sitting like this, with her feet under her, her ankle throbbed, but she didn't dare shift position and try to put it up. It would heal, she figured, though it might take some time if she kept pushing it.

And she didn't know yet where this conversation was going, so she knew it'd be best not to look weak.

"Looks can be deceiving, Chief," she kept her voice neutral. Let the old man take it however he wanted; his reaction should tell her something, at least.

Chief Hanlon smiled, a weirdly benign and toothless thing. "I just meant that I've been readin' all these reports about you and expected someone less pretty."

If Honey had hackles, they'd be raised. Why did men always feel the need to say things like that? As if her face was all the mattered about her. Still, it would make this a bit easier, if all she had to do was turn on the million-watt smile and say pretty please to get what she wanted.

But wait, she'd gotten all worked up over the wrong thing –

"What reports?"

Chief Hanlon smiled again, and this time it was less benevolent.

 _Well, if he ain't crazy like a fox, I ain't the slickest cat in Vegas._

 _You're not, but you're right about him._

 _Pussycat, you wound me._

"NCR likes to keep tabs on civilians who might make good assets on the ground. We been watchin' you since you defused that bomb on the railway at McCarran." Hanlon took a sip of his coffee. "Weren't nothin' in it for you and still you found our mole and took 'im out."

The memory of Curtis's face when she'd confronted him, the anger and the shock of it, still made her cold. Even now, in the bright morning sunshine glittering off the lake. The goosebumps spread over her arms like pale freckles, each one insistent in its goal to keep her from freezing. Honey met Hanlon's watery eyes.

"I didn't do it for the NCR," she said softly. "I did it for the Strip. That bomb could have gone off anywhere. Who knows – all the innocent people that could have been killed –"

Hanlon nodded. "Look, we know it ain't perfect. You got your own agenda. We're just wonderin' if you have any interest in helpin' us get rid of the Legion."

"I don't know –"

"If we have the goodwill of The Courier, I'm sure it'll be easier to get others to help back us up," Hanlon said. He pulled a small flask out of his pocket and opened it to pour a generous dollop of whiskey in his coffee. Hanlon gestured to her cup with it and she nodded, watching as he poured the same amount into hers.

The mug was heavy in her hand, the ceramic rim miraculously free of chips. Honey took a sip of her coffee, the sweet spiciness of the whiskey warming her frozen limbs, allowing the sun back into her skin.

"I don't know why you say it like that. I'm just a package courier."

 _And I don't work for the fucking NCR._

The NCR. The goddamn NCR. A bigger bunch of putas had never walked the pinche mundo.

And they wanted her to sign on and approve them.

Hanlon laughed now, though for the moment she wasn't sure if it was something she said or just the whiskey getting to him already. The pain in her ankle snaked its way up her calf and into her knee, pulsing along with her heartbeat.

"Where you _been,_ girlie? You're famous 'round here."

This made her raise her eyebrows in surprise – or, well, the one eyebrow that still moved properly. In all likelihood, the other one stayed still, although she couldn't tell with all the dead nerves surrounding it. Hanlon must have found something in her expression pathetic, because he softened and began to explain.

"You get shot in the head – twice – and dragged outta your grave, only to start walkin' around? Talkin'? Trackin' down the fella that shot you and givin' back as good as you got? Maybe no one knows who you're really workin' for, but – well, people have _definitely_ noticed you."

"And what is it the NCR wants me to do?"

"Well, see now, that's classified. I'm afraid I can't tell you until you're committed to the cause."

Honey laughed. It was a bitter, broken sound. Her brain hurt behind her eye. Was this the right thing to do? She didn't even know anymore, and Benny seemed to have finally gone silent in that dark place he usually spoke from.

Hanlon looked at her, and she looked at him; both wore insincere faces, the smiles of snakes. Behind her eyes she could see a burning body falling into a canyon and felt a perverse twist of hatred at this man for playing his role in that.

As if she had ever been close to Joshua; a man couldn't be your Papá if he owned your Mamá. And yet still that feeling twisted inside her, hot and angry inside her veins.

Hanlon broke first, with a small chuckle and a sip of his coffee. He made a show of looking away, down to the training yard. For all his folksy mannerisms and good-old-boy accent, Honey was left with the distinct impression that the Chief was far more than his surface.

He was dangerous.

"The NCR leaves the Mojave alone," she finally said, and he turned his head back to look at her. The smile never wavered and yet somehow his face took on a grim cast.

"I wasn't aware that this was a negotiation."

For the first time, Honey began to feel sure of herself. "It's not," she said, and the smile on her face etched deeper into her cheeks; it became real. "You want my help. The only way I'll do it is if the Mojave is left out of the NCR's plans for westward expansion."

He actually looked surprised. Had he really thought she was just going to roll over?

"What's the matter, Chief?" Honey kept her tone light; if she pushed too hard he'd crack and she'd be back to square one, running from deathclaws and the Rangers next time she was out. "Not allowed to make deals?"

The look he gave her was – she imagined – probably the way he really felt. It was impatient and a little disgusted. Honey found she didn't care.

"I'll have to take it to my superiors. But if we can continue to hold the Dam –" Honey nodded. "I don't see why not."

"Then we have a deal," Honey told him sweetly. Behind her eye it felt like someone was jabbing a pick into her skull and her ankle screamed, but she kept her tone even, polite. Sugary, like her name. She pulled pack of smokes from her pocket and lit one. Offered them to Hanlon, who shook his head. Beyond the gate and the fence, the waves of Lake Mead lapped slowly at the beach. From here she couldn't hear them, but she could see the way the light traced them.

"So tell me," she said finally, "What is this project the NCR wants me to take on?"

Hanlon looked her in the eye. "We need you to assassinate Caesar."

The smoke she'd just inhaled caught in her lungs, and Honey let it out with a cough. "Well, Chief, that's the best news you've told me all day. I was already planning on it."

* * *

Waking up to four gorillas in power armor standing over him was a pretty unnerving way for John to greet the afternoon. Granted, they might not have been gorillas. They could have been apes, or super mutants, or even a bunch of cats crammed into the limbs of the suit. Whatever they were, they were big – they seemed bigger somehow than the ones he'd seen most recently – and they all held laser weapons pointed right at him.

John let out a wordless scream and tried to climb the support beam of the overpass. Maybe not the coolest move, but he'd been asleep; hungover and still possibly drunk, he wasn't ready for a fight to the death. Hell, he wasn't even entirely sure where one of his boots was, except that it wasn't on his foot.

A moment later, he realized the suits weren't actually pointing their weapons at him; aside from one that turned their head to watch his undignified scramble up the concrete post, none of them even looked his way.

All four of them were focused on Veronica.

"Look, it's none of your damn business what I'm doing now, okay?" John hadn't heard her voice like this before; it was tense. Her shoulders looked tight inside her scribe's robes.

"You can't keep poking around, Veronica. Trying to change things." The voice that came out of the suit sounded weird; probably the ventilation system. It sounded like a robot, really. For a fleeting moment John thought again of Nicky Valentine, back home, and wondered what the old boy was up to.

Veronica seemed to deflate. From this angle, John couldn't see the expression she wore, deep inside her hood, but he had a good idea of how she felt from the tone in her voice.

"I'm not, Jenkins. Look, I'm not going to be causing any more trouble for the Brotherhood, okay?"

John inched forward, trying to look casual as he glanced around for his shotgun. It lay next to his bedroll, just far enough out of reach that he'd be toast if things took a turn south. Not good.

A sigh issued from Jenkins' helmet. "That better be the truth," he said, and Veronica's shoulders sagged.

The four tin cans turned in unison and marched out of the makeshift tent. The ground rumbled under their combined weight as they made their way up the embankment and down the road. It was nearly two minutes before the rumble died down and Veronica turned back to him, shaking like a leaf.

A thousand quips jumped to the tip of John's tongue and somehow he bit them all back. Maybe it was the look on her face, like she'd been bitten by a dog she'd thought was friendly; maybe it was just his own adrenaline. Instead he took two steps forward and found himself catching her as she collapsed, dropping fast as a stone towards the ground.

Aside from the weight of the power fist she wore, Veronica was alarmingly light; he'd known she was small, but the heavy robes she wore made it easy to think she was bigger. She felt like a bird in his arms, and he pulled her close as she began heaving, dry sobs raking through her slight body. John's arms vibrated as he helped her to a sitting position on the patchy bedroll. Veronica's shoulders jerked, and she reached one hand up to rub at her dry eyes. She shook her head and pulled back after a moment.

"Sorry about that."

He took that as a cue to sit back, and so he let her go, rifling through his bag for a can of water. When he found it and opened it, he placed it in her hand. Veronica gave him a wordless thank you with her eyes and sipped at it. Gradually, the shivering inside her clothes seemed to subside, and when she looked at him her eyes were red but her gaze was steady.

"You gonna be okay, sister?"

Her head nodded, then shook, and then Veronica shrugged. A little laugh escaped her, more an exhalation than anything else. "I don't know. I think about – I gave up so much –"

John was at a loss. He reached out again, awkwardly, and put one hand on her shoulder. Fuck, she was small. The bones felt like a child's; her shoulder was far narrower than it looked. She must have a ton of padding and armor inside her robes. Again he felt a newfound respect for the way she carried herself – and whatever the hell she was wearing – through the desert so comfortably, while he was sweating his ass off sitting in the shady tent under the trading post.

"So what now?" She looked at him, and this time her brown eyes were wet.

"I think I'd like to just – go back to sleep for a while." John nodded, and Veronica took another gulp from the can of water before handing it back to him. She curled up on top of the bedroll, her back to him. His hand slid off her back, and he wished there was something more he could do for her.

As Veronica's breathing slowed, John found he was awake for real now. He patted his pockets, checking for cigarettes, Jet, and caps, and found he had all three. He ducked out of the tent and into the midday sun. Across from him, in the shade of the opposite side of the overpass, sat a boy wearing what looked like the remains of a stealth boy. Kid was small, maybe nine or ten years old. He wore rags and sat on a dirty, threadbare towel.

John watched him, eyeing the way the kid sat with his eyes on the road gleaming dully in the hot sun. Had to have seen a lot, sitting there and watching. He flicked away his cigarette butt and walked over.

"Hey, kid."

"Hello sir!" The kid's voice was too bright, too friendly. It made John's brain hurt inside his skull; or maybe that was the Jet. "I hope you're doing fine today."

"What's that you got on your head there?" Kids just…weren't his thing. Seeing orphans – he assumed – like this always tugged at his heart strings, but it wasn't like John knew what to say. There weren't a whole lot of little folks in his life, and he didn't always know what he was supposed to do with them. What was a kid-friendly thing to say?

"Oh this? It's my medicine."

That was a fuckin' weird thing to say, and John told him so before he realized maybe you shouldn't talk to kids that way. But the kid just laughed.

"It helps me keep from thinking," the kid said, smiling sweetly. Something inside John seemed to twang, but it seemed better not to give it too much thought. Probably just a tumor on a lung or something. "I can take it off, though, if you want to hear some of my thoughts."

"Don't take this the wrong way, kid, but why would I want your thoughts?"

"I forgot," the kid said, his voice apologetic. "They call me the Forecaster. I can tell people things they don't know when I take off my medicine."

This sounded familiar somehow; it took him a moment, and then John remembered why. Rumors of an old woman down Quincy way who would tell the future when you gave her chems. He'd meant to visit her, but then there was the election, and Martin won and then –

The image of Myrtle Stanton flashed behind his eyes again, the bodies of the dead he'd been unable to save. He blinked once, very slowly, and the light of the Mojave sun danced inside his head. It made him dizzy, lightheaded. When he opened them again, the kid was still there, smiling benignly.

"Would you like a reading, sir?"

John found himself nodding. He fumbled in his pocket for some caps. "How much?"

"A hundred caps."

Shit, that was steep. Then again – John glanced around the area under the overpass. He thought of the trading post above, of the things that would send a kid here, to this way station. No family, probably. No home. No way to eat, to survive. Just the caps he could get from forecasting, as he called it. It didn't even matter if he said anything coherent, or even accurate, John decided suddenly. He would pay for it. It took him a full minute to count the caps out, but when he did, the kid pulled the stealth boy apparatus from his head, setting it on the pavement next to him.

"What would you like to hear about?"

John's first thought, though he didn't know why: "'Home." His voice cracked when he said it.

The kid squinted, half-closed eyes turned up to the sun, or perhaps to John, but with the glare it was hard to tell. After a moment, he began to speak.

"The Director's end is his beginning. His work is never done but walks forever…alive and also not. The train leaves the station and crashes into – a blimp?" His voice rose in a question, but the boy barreled on. "A town falls but five rise. The one who waits comes home, and finds things different. She will change them more still. Forecast…" a sigh, so heavy the boy's chest rose and fell and rose again. "A radstorm that rends the Commonwealth."

Something about this unsettled him, though John couldn't say why. It sounded like nonsense, but the shiver down his spine told a different story. There was truth in it, even if he couldn't figure it out.

His brain might not understand what was happening, but his body knew; his hand was already in a pocket, fishing out another hundred caps, and pressing them into the boy's outstretched hands.

"You want to know about you?"

John nodded.

Again, the turn of the head and the boy's eyes half-closed against the sun.

"The change you gambled on is not what you expected. Your borrowed purpose doesn't suit you well; it's the coat you need, a coat taken and kept with blood. Goodsprings or Goodneighbor, your face is different but your heart the same. You can't save them all. You can't save yourself. Love is not enough. Forecast: it's always darkest before the dawn."

Now didn't _that_ sound cheery.

* * *

Chief Hanlon, for all his talk about wanting her to take out Caesar, didn't seem to want to let Honey out of his sight. He insisted she go down to medical again, though Sawbones had wrapped her ankle before their tense breakfast. The chief insisted on Sawbones giving her a stimpack, though she didn't see the point for a sprained ankle, and Sawbones looked annoyed at the idea of wasting precious supplies on a minor injury.

"These things don't grow on trees, you know," he told her as if it were her idea, and the thought of slugging him was so tempting that Honey found her hand balled into a fist before she could stop herself. She unclenched it slowly, one finger at a time, and then – mercifully – Hanlon was called outside to talk to someone.

"Wait," she said to Sawbones, and he paused before he took the plastic wrap off the needle. "I really don't need it."

"You sure about that?" Despite his reluctance to medicate her, he now looked doubtful. The look on his face was so funny, Honey let a small giggle out.

That appeared to be the right thing to do. The tight lines on the doc's face relaxed, and he straightened the wrapping on the stimpack. "You have to stim a lot of minor dings then?"

The doctor nodded, face going slack, almost into a frown. "A lot of the soldiers who get sent here, I guess they don't know what real pain is, you know?" His eyes left hers, flicking up to the tangle of scars on her forehead. "I'd wager that's not you, though."

Her scars throbbed in time to her heartbeat. She'd have to work fast if she was going to wheedle a dose of Med-X out of the company doc. He bent down to stow away the stimpack

"You'd wager right," she said, keeping her voice light. Then: "But I do have these headaches –"

Sawbones looked up from where he knelt, the frown deep now. "You looking for pain meds, then."

Honey ran her eyes over his face. Saying no would eliminate that as option, and she wasn't sure she was a good enough liar to fool a doctor that she wasn't asking for the exact thing she wanted. That left only admitting it as an option, and who knew if he'd go for it. If he hadn't wanted to waste a stimpack, why would he give her Med-X?

But he must have seen something in her eyes; sometimes she forgot that when you look into someone, they look into you, too. And Sawbones must have understood. He rifled around in the supply chest for another moment, then stood, letting it drop closed with a bang that made the headache knocking inside her skull scream.

"Brain damage?" He pulled the clear plastic off the syringe, let it drop into the wastebasket next to the exam table. There was a piece of rubber tubing in his hand, and he wrapped it around her arm. His hands were cold – they reminded her of Arcade, and she thought to wonder how he was doing. Whether his research had yielded anything promising.

"I have a friend with the Followers," she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking as the fact that she hadn't seen him in weeks now hit her. Funny how she missed someone so much that she hadn't even known less than a year ago. "He says it's a severe TBI." A nod from the doctor, his hands tracing the line of her arm, searching for a good spot amid the scar tissue. Finally he found the clear line of her vein, purple under her tanned skin, snaking like the Colorado through Mojave. He formed her hand into a fist and she clenched and unclenched as she had a few minute before.

"Memory loss?"

Honey nodded, shivering as the doctor rubbed a bit of alcohol on her arm with a square of cotton. "At first. I think I have almost everything back now."

The doctor slid the needle in neatly, pressed the plunger down. There was that feeling, as always, of ice working its way through her limbs and into her heart. "That's interesting. You'd probably be a good candidate for surgery, then."

The needle came out, landed in a different wastebasket, this one with a lid. It landed not with a dull thunk but a clatter; there had to be a ton of other syringes in there. Now wonder he'd been hesitant to stimpack her.

"I'd be careful using this stuff for too long, though," Sawbones told Honey just as the edges of the headache began to ease. She nodded again, remembering how Mercedes had loved Med-X. The girl had loved to lie around, high as a pinche kite, blasted off into the stratosphere, fucking and watching the sky change.

What a fool she'd been.

"Well, I don't think there's much left for me to do for you," the doc said, turning as Hanlon came back into the tent. "Just be careful with that ankle while it heals and watch it around the deathclaws."

Honey laughed, climbing carefully off the exam table. Her ankle wanted to buckle but somehow it held. More than anything, she wanted out of the camp. It'd be getting dark in a few hours, and she'd prefer to make it to the 188 before midnight. She'd spent enough time here; Caesar was waiting and she still had her plan left to iron out.

She followed Hanlon to the canvas door of the tent and was about to step out when Sawbones caught her with a soft, "Honey?"

Honey turned, hair spilling over her shoulder. Now that the chem had kicked in, she felt so good; now she remembered why Mercedes had loved this so.

"Take care of yourself. And if you ever need something and the Followers can't help, come see me." The half-smile on Sawbones' face reminded her of Arcade, too; it was tinged with worry, concern writ large in his eyes.

With a joking salute, she followed Hanlon out in the Mojave afternoon.

* * *

The Followers of the Apocalypse outpost was a bizarre building, small, of wooden construction. What made it unusual was the way it had been built on stilts. Getting there had been easy enough and they arrived just before sunset, the dry heat of day sending rivulets of sweat down John's arms. He'd left a note for Honey – just when the fuck was she going to be back, anyway? Was he going to have to swim across Lake Mead to find her? – along with her bedroll.

"Are you sure about this?" Veronica looked nervous. She stood very still at the base of the stairs, face half-hidden inside her hood. With the sun behind them, her shadow was long on the rocky desert ground, stretching all the way to the foot of the rickety wooden stairs that led to the room above.

The hood nodded. Then: "I'm just going to talk to them. It doesn't mean I'm joining up."

That seemed smart. It probably wouldn't do to jump in all at once with another group, no matter how well-meaning. She might not even like them.

"They may not even want me," Veronica continued, voice small.

"Well, let's go find out," John said, taking the first step forward. Veronica followed, and by the time they reached the stairs, she was ahead of him, some of her seemingly-endless energy returned. She bounded up the stairs like a puppy – man, she made him feel old sometimes – and then they were blinking in the darkness of the outpost.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice. The speaker came around a corner from a second room; she was petite, pretty. Her face reminded him of Honey – same thick lashes, same strong nose and curve to her jaw. Her eyes were darker, though warm and worried. She had the look of a doctor, though, and the white coat she wore made him think again of Arcade.

 _Love is not enough._

John looked at Veronica, who'd pushed her hood back. Even in the dim light of the shack, he could see a collection of freckles that formed a pattern on her temple, down her jaw, and along her neck. She still looked nervous, and he bit down on the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. Of all the people to be scared by, a Followers doctor didn't seem to make the list.

"My name is Veronica," she said finally, her voice tight. "I was hoping – I don't know how –"

John slung an arm around her casually, and leaned into her. "V here's lookin' to join up with you folks."

The look she shot him was grateful, and her shoulders seemed to relax. The doctor looked between them, from John to Veronica, back again, and finally settled on the scribe. Her eyes crinkled at the edges, the hint of a smile, though her lips didn't join in. Still, it made John feel more at-ease.

"I'm Doctor Alvarez," she said, offering a hand to each of them to shake. Her fingers were small, lightly calloused. For a moment John thought of bringing her hand to his lips to kiss, and then he thought better and released it. "Doctor Schiller is the one who makes all those decisions, and he won't be back 'til tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, we simply don't have the space for you to stay here, but the Grab 'n' Gulp is just up the road if you'd like to come back then."

He looked around; Doc Alvarez was right. The room was bare, with nothing but a few mattresses, a desk, and several trunks of what were likely medical equipment. This wasn't even a field hospital, he thought. More like a first aid station when compared to the Old Mormon Fort.

There were several minutes of the two women chatting politely about Alvarez's experience in the Followers, and then a patient moaned from the back room and the doctor excused herself. John followed Veronica back outside, where the western sky was streaked in lavender and crimson.

"Sounds like you liked her," he teased as they made their way down the stairs. He couldn't see her face to see if she'd blushed, but from the way she said his name, "Jo- _ohn!_ " he knew he'd gotten under her skin.

"Hey, I appreciate a fine-looking woman and I know you do, too," he said, pausing at the foot of the stairs to light a cigarette. The smoke went in smoothly, hot and welcome and soothing, and after a moment they began walking again, headed north to the rest stop.

"Yeah, but it's not like that's the only reason I thought maybe this would be a good place for me," she said, hood turning north and south to check for danger. Apparently seeing none, she began up the road. In the distance, the lights of New Vegas glowed against the approaching night.

"Nah, there's plenty of good they do. My man's a Follower, too." He bumped her shoulder lightly with his own, and he could hear her grin as she answered.

"Your man, huh? I thought for sure that you and Honey – well, you know."

John laughed. "We did, once. But she's got a lot on her place and I'm not much of a one-person man."

"But you just said –"

"I know what I said," he chuckled, and Veronica looked at him, suspicious behind her smile. "But Arcade is different. I feel like he might be the real thing, you know?"

Veronica's smile faltered a little; it was sad, for all it should have been a happy expression. "Yeah, I know."

He wrapped a friendly arm around her shoulder. "C'mon. Let me buy you a drink."


	24. If You Had Prepared Years Ago

Way Back Home: If You Had Prepared Years Ago

Notes: Things are going to start picking up speed here. We have a lot of story still to churn through, so here's hoping I don't lose you guys.

* * *

Honey wasn't sure what she expected when she returned to the 188, though she found she wasn't surprised to find John and Veronica gone. A note sat in the makeshift tent, pressed to her bedroll by a large chunk of concrete to keep it from blowing away. In the dark of night with only a sliver of moon overhead, she couldn't make out the letters, so she walked out to stand by a burn barrel at the NCR camp on the overpass.

 _Honey –_

 _Veronica and I have gone to make some new friends up north. If her family stops by, let them know she's going on a walkabout._

 _I'll see you at home._

 _John_

She turned the paper over in her hands, wondering at the vagueness of it. It was pretty clear he was worried about someone finding it that shouldn't; the line about Veronica's family made it obvious he meant the Brotherhood without putting it right out there. And mentioning he'd see her at home – well, he didn't have a home out here, but that must mean he'd head next to the Lucky 38, the closest thing either of them had to a home right now.

It was the bit about the "new friends up north." Had he discovered where the Brotherhood was based? But if he had, he'd have called them Veronica's family, wouldn't he?

Her head hurt. Mercedes had a dim memory of a run-in with a team of brown-robe wearing Brotherhood members back when she was scavenging in some ruins to the west; there was a scar on Honey's shoulder, one that obscured an old slash from a childhood whipping. The stippled with craters marked where the laser fire had struck her as she'd fled. The memory might be faded like an old picture, but there'd been no mistaking the hooded robes Veronica wore, or the heavy power fist on her arm.

No, it sounded like the two of them were in trouble with the Brotherhood and John hadn't been able to wait, or maybe hadn't been willing to take the chance.

Honey breathed heavily out through her mouth and dropped the note into the burn barrel. Wherever the two of them had gone, she wasn't going to see them tonight. Her feet itched; she knew she could probably catch up to them if she kept walking, but given how tired she was – the nap she'd taken at Camp Golf hadn't been exactly restful – she'd be useless before long if something came out from the dark to attack her.

She turned back to the bar and settled herself on a stool. Samuel fixed her with a frown when she asked for a bottle of whiskey.

"Ain't got that. You friend done cleared us out. We're due for another shipment in a day or two. You wanta wait that long?"

It was clear the joke wasn't meant to be funny. Honey winced.

"Could I get a beer?"

"All's I got is warm."

Boy, this night just worse and worse. Honey sighed heavily and nodded. The beer he gave her was indeed warm, which intensified its skunkiness. Honey drank it anyway, paid him his caps, and tried to relax. In her pack sat a few syringes of Med-X and the rest of her stash of painkillers from the research hospital.

She took another sip of her beer and turned to look out at the serene blackness of the desert. She'd never seen the ocean, but -

 _Imagine...Lake Mead, but instead of seeing shore on the other side, it goes on forever, or at least farther than you can see. On the other side, maybe there's land, but the water stretches so far it would take you months to cross it in a boat._

 _Shit, babydoll, what's this yahoo doin' here?_

 _Jealous?_ John's voice in her head was a bluesy growl so different from Benny's slick crooning.

' _Course I'm not jealous of you, you –_

"Quiet, both of you, I'm trying to think!" Honey slammed the beer down on the bar. Foam fizzed up over the top of the bottle and down the side, wetting her hand and leaking lazily onto the bar. Samuel raised an eyebrow at her, and Honey felt a blush creep over her cheeks. It was just her, and him, and he was staring at her like she was a crazy person.

Which she probably was.

"Sorry," she said softly, then climbed off the stool, grabbed her pack, and went down to climb in her bedroll, dose herself with Med-X, and get some sleep.

* * *

The first sign that something was wrong was the blood trickling from beneath the door of the Followers' outpost. If the building had been built on the ground – you know, like _most_ buildings – he wouldn't have had the opportunity to see the droplets. But now John was at eye level with it, and he paused, putting one hand out to stop Veronica. She saw it the moment after he did, and from this angle, with the morning sun shining into her hood, he could see the grim set of her jaw.

He pulled the shotgun from his back and checked it; two shells in the chamber. It might not be much good if they were outmatched, but then he remembered the other gun strapped to his back.

 _Thump-Thump._

John slid the shotgun back and removed the grenade launcher. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating whether this was a good idea or a crazy one, and came down firmly on the side of both. He let it dangle from his hand loosely and glanced back at Veronica. She had her fist raised, her face white; she gave a small, single nod.

 _Open the door,_ the nod said. So he did.

The action cast a square of light into the room, showing them carnage in brightly overexposed fragments like scraps of pre-war photographs. Almost against the door lay what was left of Doctor Alvarez, her pretty face gone beneath blistered skin. Her eyes were gone, liquefied in laser fire, and all that remained were two black rings of skull where the sockets had been. It was her blood that spread slowly to drip under the door onto the step below.

A few feet away was a pile of ash, still glowing red; a pair of legs poked out from behind the wall that separated the two halves of the building. Women's legs, pale in the dim light, wearing impractical patent leather heels that were only slightly cracked with age. Overhead, a fly buzzed aimlessly around the naked bulb in the light socket. It bumped into it once, twice, three times, then fell to floor dead.

Without the sound of the fly buzzing, John and Veronica stood in the door of the outpost. Though the sun was hot overhead, every inch of John was frozen solid for the first time since he'd made it to the Mojave. The sweat dripping down his back felt like icicles.

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no –" Veronica's voice was so quiet her words were more vibration than actual sound. He could feel them through the frigid skin of his back, her words a prayer or maybe an incantation.

A requiem.

John took another step into the room, Veronica tight on his heels. He tried to step over the blood ponding sluggishly at the open door but was too busy watching the door across from them and those pale legs in their stupid shoes. His boot squelched sickeningly in the blood. Each step he took into the room left a grisly footprint on the wooden floor, though they faded as he grew closer to the opposite room.

Rounding the corner, and there they were: those four fucking gorillas in power armor. He wished he was surprised but instead there was just that feeling again, the sensation of inevitability, or destiny.

It was the same thing he'd felt when they burned Nicole's body. The same feeling he'd had when he'd discovered Myrtle in that cage, super mutants all around and her cat mewling helplessly. It gnawed at him as if it wanted to eat him alive, as if it _could_ eat him alive.

The tin cans all turned at once, a dizzying motion of gleaming steel and the sound of creaking servos in John's ears. Their faces were impossible to see, obscured as they were by their helmets. They were inhuman, the steel faces of their masks impassive and hateful.

"Sharing knowledge with an outsider organization," the closest one sneered. Even through the breathing apparatus of the suit, his disdain for Veronica was clear. John could feel her take a step back. "I knew you couldn't be trusted."

All John could seem to focus on was the rushing of air between his ears, the oversized laser rifles in the soldiers' hands. One looked like a gatling.

"We tracked your movements a long way," the can-man said. "But it was worth it to catch you in the act." He wasn't speaking to John; no, his words flew right over John's shoulder to Veronica, who stood behind him like a statue. John realized she was quivering. In fear? More likely in anger.

He tried to calculate exactly how long he'd last in a fight with these fuckers but his brain couldn't compute numbers that small. An unconscious hand went to his pocket and pulled out the Ultra inhaler. It went into his mouth, the Jet into his lungs, and then things felt a little better.

No one was paying attention to him, he realized as the Jet took over. He could just – yeah, just like that, he took a step backwards. One of the power-armored gorillas tilted his helmet back towards him but only for a moment, and then it turned back to Veronica.

John took another step. Or perhaps he floated. That was the great thing about Jet – everything became so soft, so easy. It was more like drifting than walking.

"Passing Brotherhood secrets to outsiders is the lowest form of treason. What have you got to say for yourself?"

All eyes were on her – or, at least all weird armored helmets were facing her. No one seemed to have noticed that John had gotten behind her now. That also meant they probably hadn't noticed the fact that he was flying. A second stretched into a year, and John took the time to look down at Thump-Thump in his hand, to check that it was loaded, the load charged and his grip firm.

He'd only have one chance at this but luckily, he was on Jet Standard Time.

Veronica started to open her mouth but when John wrapped an arm around her shoulder she closed it. Her body was so small inside her sackcloth, her shoulders barely wider than a child's; it made him think of Nicole again, just for a moment.

But not this time. This time he really would be a hero.

This time he would save the girl.

He looked up at the gorillas with what he knew was a shit-eating grin (hadn't Marvin always called it that, right before he did something that would drive his brother up the wall, just to see it happen?). He couldn't help it; a small giggle seeped out from between his lips.

"I got a question for you, tin can man," he giggled again. Tin Can Man. It rhymed. That was funny. He took another slow step back, pulled Veronica with him. No one seemed to notice. The guy in the lead seemed to tilt his head ever so slightly, or maybe that was the Jet.

"You wear that thing all the time?"

"What?"

"The suit," he let go of Veronica long enough to gesture at the power armor. "You gotta be pretty ugly to want to wear that all the time. Me, I'd rather be dead and pretty."

"You're gonna be dead in just a –"

"You fuck with it on?" He took another step back, dragging Veronica with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her looking at him, goggling. Her mouth had dropped open in obvious surprise.

Just another couple steps and they'd be out the door. He couldn't fucking believe he'd gotten this far without anyone noticing.

There was a garbled transmission from the head solider, the one with the gatling laser; the only thing he could make out clearly was "you little shit."

The gatling laser rose; there was the distinct whirring as it started to spin. Veronica stepped forward, trying to head towards the tin cans, whether it was suicide or not. He could feel everything, the thrum of her power fist charging slowly, each crack of the floorboards. He could see it all, could see the laser rifle in the back coming up, could hear a plasma rifle charging somewhere to the right. Every molecule of Veronica fought him as he took a flying leap backwards.

Back, out the door.

John raised Thump-Thump awkwardly with his left hand. He should use both to steady it, but with Veronica flailing it'd be too easy to lose her, to let her cling to the rail and try to climb back into the building. He stood at top of the stairs, the weight of the grenade launcher so heavy he didn't know how long he could hold it, even with the Jet coursing through him.

One heartbeat. There was a footstep as one of the tin cans made their way to the door. The gatling laser was almost ready to fire; the building vibrated with the weight of the power armor.

 _Thump-thump_ went another heartbeat, and he pulled the trigger.

The grenade launched as a third heartbeat sounded in his chest, steady and slow and reassuring. As slow as if he was asleep, or lounging on a sofa at the Lucky 38. Despite his calm heart, Thump-Thump's kickback was everything he'd thought it would be, making him lose his aim, his arm wavering dangerously to the left.

As they went sailing over the rail at the top of the stairs, John clinging Veronica to him, he thought for a moment that the grenade went too far to the left, it was going to hit the doorframe, he'd fucked it all up again –

But it squeaked through. It made it through the doorway with less than an inch to spare, landing squarely in the beam of the gatling laser as it powered up. John flung himself over the rail, taking Veronica with him, even though she screamed. The feral sound of her wailing echoed off the rock formations to the right, repeating back at him.

The grenade glowed, a vivid and toxic green that made him think of the clouds that blew in from the Glowing Sea during a radstorm. When it blew, super-heated by the laser, the blast was so powerful that the air displaced actually seemed to pick him up, bodily lifting John and carrying him gently over the rail to land on one of the old rusted train cars below. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his grip on the grenade launcher, so he wrapped both arms around Veronica's shoulders protectively and brought her with him, floating easily down, down, down.

Her body rocked gently into his as they landed. There was a moment of silent roaring, a plume of green fire out of the door of the outpost, and then the roof of the train car buckled and into it they crashed.

* * *

The Lucky 38 had elevated eerie quiet to a high art. As Honey's eyes adjusted and she could see what the place looked like in the dim lights; she'd forgotten the creepiness of it, the stillness of the casino. The tracks made in the carpet, the ones from Arcade and Cass and John leaving with her, were nearly gone, obliterated by weeks' worth of dust.

 _Too long. We were gone too long._

Heart thrumming, she crossed to the elevator and rode to the Presidential Suite. _Home,_ John had called it, but inside it seemed more like a crypt than a place someone lived. Homes were warm, friendly places with people who wanted to be around you.

In contrast, this was a silent place, a dead space. She shuffled down the carpeted hallways on her tiptoes, hesitant. The carpet seemed to swallow any sounds she made and the air smelled as if no one had been there in months. It reminded her of her first visit inside, just before she found Benny. The way the walls had seemed to close in around her, the feeling of being watched though there was no one to be found.

She couldn't do it; it was too much. The air was too heavy. No, she had to get out.

Honey turned and ran to the elevator, which took too long to come. She rode down nervously, practically vibrating out of her skin in her need to get out.

 _I can't be here without them. No puedo estar solo esta noche._

 _Careful what you wish for, pussycat._

Outside, the night air was just starting to cool. She wondered for what felt like the millionth time where Arcade was, and Cass, and John. For a moment she considered turning and walking back off the Strip, back to Freeside, where the Kings would welcome her and the Garretts would give her a room. She debated crossing the street to the Gomorrah, where she was fairly certain Joana would welcome her and force Cachino to serve her whatever drinks she could dream up.

Neither idea held any allure, but the night was young and Honey was achingly lonely. The whole way here she'd imagined her friends waiting in the Presidential Suite. John would be draped across Arcade's lap, a Jet-high smile on his face, Arcade's expression teetering somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Cass would be seated across from them with a sly smile, a cup of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, trying to teach John to play Caravan for the hundredth time. Maybe Veronica would have decided to stick around, and she'd be –

Mercedes never had friends. She thought she did but when Honey looked back on that part of her life now, she could see the people she'd hung around for what they were. Opportunists, chem-dealers, drunks. Leeches and manipulators and all other manner of scum.

She wasn't dressed for it, but fuck it, Honey decided all at once. She let her feet turn her left, towards the Ultra-Luxe. After what she'd done for them, she would dare them to not let her in.

The dare was unnecessary though; the greeter at the door of the casino didn't so much as ask for her weapons before stepping aside to allow Honey to take the best seat at the Top Shelf. Around her were the sophisticated sounds the Ultra-Luxe was known for, the sounds Marjorie had tried so hard to cultivate: the quiet rattle of dice hitting the back of the craps table, the swoosh-flick of cards being turned over, the soft and polite dismay as the house won another round. The tinkling sounds of drinks being poured and ice splashed with liquor. It was dizzying, all these sounds; it was exhausting, and she realized suddenly just how very badly her head hurt. It was strange how it sometimes seemed to sneak up on her.

It was at this moment that a drink appeared before her, a confection of liquor unlike one Honey had ever seen. It smelled faintly of tequila, but there was also a waft of cactus fruit, a slice of which was speared on the rim. It smelled sweet and strong and so very tempting.

"I didn't order this," she said, her voice as soft and modulated as those around her. She might not look the part, dressed in her battered leather armor and spattered with Mojave dust, but she could certainly sound it.

If there was something life as Mercedes had taught her, it was that if you wanted to get away with a scam, you had to act like you belonged, no matter how you looked. And it worked, it really did – or her reputation was all Hanlon had told her it was – because the bartender didn't seem to question what this ragged desert-dweller was doing.

"The gentleman sent it to you," the bartender said, gesturing behind himself with a small flourish and then disappearing to the other end of the bar to attend to something else.

 _Watch out, pussycat. Get a good idea of what you're agreeing to before you accept anything._

Honey looked down at the drink. It was vibrant, color layered upon color, like the desert sunrise itself. The decorative chunk of cactus fruit hanging from the rim of the elegant glass smelled fresh, clean. The ache behind her temple thundered, yearning for the relief the drink might give, no matter how temporary.

She raised her eyes slowly but kept her head down, eyeing the man the bartender had indicated. He was non-descript: a plain, dark suit, dun-colored tie, bowler-style hat. Everything about him screamed that he didn't mean to be looked at, which could only mean one thing.

He was here to observe, not to be observed.

 _Fair enough. I can play that._

Without so much as a nod in his direction, Honey stood, lifted her glass, and sashayed across the crowded bar to a dimly-lit table on the far side, away from the door. It was quieter here, more private; she threw an extra swing into her step to entice him.

Men were so easy.

It was only a moment before he slid into the seat across from her, a drink in his own hand. Clear, though bubbling, and from the smell it was non-alcoholic. This close she could see the dark fuzz of hair on his head, peeking out from under his hat. She could see the bright blue of his eyes. Somehow, improbably, she _knew_ him.

"Mercedes. Although I hear they call you Honey now, when they don't call you the Courier." His voice, and the way he said "courier," as if it were a curse. She knew the silkiness of his voice, the sinew in it.

"You have me at a disadvantage," she said to give herself time. Playing the flirt never hurt when she wanted something from a man, even one who so clearly reeked of the Legion. Given how tightly Caesar kept his men, sometimes that was the smartest move she could make.

"Mr. Fox," he said, extending a hand across the table for her to shake.

* * *

John didn't know how long he lay there, pinned under Veronica's weight and watching the intermittent flickers of laser-charged fire burn above them. The Jet wore off slowly, or maybe all at once; it was hard to gauge after the intensity of the Ultra high. Eventually it occurred to him that the lightness and gentleness of their flight down had been part of the chem and that his back ached furiously where it had hit the top of the train car.

It was strenuous work to shift into a sitting position, made harder by the fact that Veronica's body had slid up and across him when the train car collapsed. She lay across his upper chest and neck now, forcing his shoulders back into the wreckage of rusted steel and splintered wooden crates. Her body was limp and unresponsive, though he could feel each of her breaths shuddering through his own body.

Inch by inch, he moved Veronica off his chest and eased her down to his lap. Minute by minute, John found himself closer to vertical until finally – _finally!_ – he sat with his back resting against the remains of a half-rotten wooden crate. In his lap, Veronica gave a soft snuffle and he found himself wondering what Arcade would do, what Honey would tell him. How do you treat a head injury serious enough that someone lost consciousness? He couldn't remember.

Fuck. Hopefully moving her this much hadn't hurt her worse. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now.

All his limbs hurt; each breath he tried to take was tedious, laborious. Above him the sky had gone dark – had he lost consciousness and not realized it? The fire above had dulled in color, though he could see the bright embers of the building's wooden frame like a lantern in the sky.

John looked down at the sleeping girl in his lap; her hood had fallen back in the explosion, or perhaps as he worked his way to sitting. Her face was pretty, with a button nose and a small gash over one cheek. He watched her breathe in, then out, and wondered when she would wake up.

Hoped that she would.

* * *

It didn't take long for Honey to remember why she knew Mr. Fox, or who he really was. It took everything she had not to spit it out mid-sentence but instead she took a quick swallow of the drink he'd bought her and used the sweet-and-sour distraction to keep her face still.

"The party that I represent is most interested in –"

"You know," she smiled as she cut him off, thought from the narrowing of Mr. Fox's bright eyes, she had a feeling he didn't welcome it. Honey found she didn't care. "I've already been to see Cae-"

"Don't say that name here." The silkiness of Mr. Fox's voice was gone. _Mr. Fox_ was gone. Before her, instead, was the frumentariius Vulpes Inculta in a poorly-tailored profligate outfit. Something about the way he looked in it made her think of New Canaan, of the strict dress code the people there had followed. The way they had always looked at her, as if she was less human than them.

Living with them had been like living with the Legion; a different form of slavery.

"What name would you prefer I use? Edward Sallow?" Joshua had given her that piece of information, though she had no idea why at the time.

Vulpes' reaction was not what she'd expected; his skin, already pale by desert standards, blanched further, leaving his face nearly as pale as the masks of the White Gloves. In contrast, his eyes – tight at the edges – seemed to blaze, the blue stronger than she'd noticed even when he sat down.

Before she could fully process it, a smile broke across his face, so bright and dazzling she wondered for a moment if she'd imagined the sudden flush, the anger.

Vulpes snaked one hand across the table to grip her about the wrist. Anyone watching would probably think it was sensual and she couldn't help herself; Honey leaned into the obvious deception, despite the way his fingers bit into the back of her wrist as her pretended to caress her. She tossed her hair back, smiling as coyly as she knew how. A slave smile, a pleasure girl's smile. The one she always brought out when a Legionnary threatened.

"I would not recommend you use that name, either." He cast a subtle glance to the left, then the right, never letting the smile leave his face. The meaning of it was clear, even though he had already locked his eyes back on her.

He wasn't working for Caesar. And they were likely being watched.


	25. That Song Ain't So Far From Wrong

Way Back Home: That Song Ain't So Far From Wrong

Notes: I have to give another thank you to Mercenary_bunnies for helping me with some of the errant plot threads that we're starting to pull together. She's so much more than a beta-reader, you guys – she's also done so much to help me keep continuity and stop me from doing stupid things, all while giving me new ideas to work with and good tweaks on existing plot points. Without her help, large sections of this fic would be just jumbled mess written in crayon on my bedroom wall.

Please note: a small portion of explicit sexual content has been cut from this but still appears over on Ao3.

* * *

" _A large unidentified aircraft has been seen circling the skies above the New Vegas Strip. Freesiders are hoping it will drop food, but I wouldn't get your hopes up Freesiders._ _Ya'know sometimes the journey beats the destination, and especially when your spurs go Jingle, Jangle, Jingle, and you meet some nice gals along the way._ "

Mr. New Vegas's voice cut out and there was a blast of horns, but this wasn't what made Honey jump. No, it was the sound of the elevator doors opening with a subdued ding and a quiet whoosh. She sprang to her feet and peeked around the corner.

Arcade and Cass stood there, dragging behind them a heavy metal cart laden with supplies and thick folders of research materials. They were laughing quietly about something – well, more accurately, Cass's laughter was being swallowed by the elevator and Arcade smirked. Heart thumping – this was going to take some explaining, though she was still relieved to see her friends – Honey made her way around the corner with a smile.

The cart's wheels squeaked as it rolled forward, settling into the thick carpeting inside the suite. Cass let out an annoyed curse and Arcade turned to help, pausing when he saw Honey staring at them.

As nervous as she was, Honey couldn't keep from launching into Arcade's arms. He was bigger than she remembered, taller, and it surprised her how he didn't hesitate to pull her into a hug. Her feet dangled above the rug as she clung to his broad shoulders, his hands cool through the flannel shirt on her back.

"Well fuck me and call me a biscuit." Cass wrapped around her back, and there was a surprisingly pleasant feeling of suffocation as the three of them stood for a long time in a warm hug. Finally, they separated, the tangle of arms unwinding slowly. Honey stood back to look at them. Cass, with her blue eyes twinkling and auburn strands poking from under her cowboy hat; Arcade had an inflamed patch of sunburned skin peeling on his nose.

"I've missed you pendejos," she said before she could stop herself, and Cass let out a giggle. Honey wondered briefly how much the woman had had to drink, but found it didn't matter.

"It's good to see you," Arcade said, and there was no imagining the warm tone in his voice; he meant it. His hand still lingered on her shoulder, and his eyes seemed to be scanning her. Honey stood tall, trying to look stronger than she felt.

"Tú también, and you too Cass."

"What have you been up to?" Cass pulled her hat off and tossed it onto one of the tables that flanked the door of the master bedroom.

Honey let out a sigh. "There's…been some interesting developments."

Cass raised an eyebrow, her voice sardonic. "Sounds like I'll need a drink for this one."

 _You sure you ready to tell them, pussycat? They're not gonna like it._

"That sounds like a good idea," Honey said, linking one arm through Cass's and another through Arcade's.

Behind them, from the second bedroom, came the sound of footsteps like broken glass.

 _No, not yet! Too soon, too –_

"Is John with you?" Arcade slipped out of her grasp and took a step towards the bedroom.

"No, he –"

But Arcade was gone, eager as a puppy, crossing to the door of the second bedroom before she could stop him. Honey dropped Cass's arm as quickly as she'd picked it up, curses echoing through her brain, tried to grab his hand again, but –

Arcade stood in the doorway of the bedroom, cheeks as bright pink as his nose.

"What the _fuck_ is going on here?"

She'd never heard him curse like that before; usually Arcade was more circumspect, more verbal. Cass's footsteps came closer, but Honey couldn't turn her head from the tableau before her. Arcade in the doorway, practically vibrating in rage and staring at the man who stood by the bed.

Mr. Fox – Vulpes Inculta – gave a small, almost ironic, nod at the doctor. "Hello, Doctor Gannon."

Honey couldn't seem to see more than one thing at a time. Her eyes jumped from one thing to another, trying to register them all and failing. Arcade, clenching his fists as if contemplating taking a swing. Vulpes's wolfish smirk. Cass, standing behind her.

"Do you know who this is?" She'd never seen him so angry. She hadn't been sure Arcade could even _get_ angry.

"He –"

"This is a _Legion spy,_ Honey."

"Frumentarius," Vulpes corrected him.

"You're not helping," she cut in, glaring at the Legionary.

"He's their _best_ spy, Honey." If it weren't for the rage in his voice, Arcade would have sounded like a schoolteacher. "He's one of _them."_

"I know," she tried, but Arcade just rolled over her, his voice raised, a vein in his temple popping.

"You said you were working with Caesar until you could get close enough to –"

Honey sagged back against the wall, the pain in her head flaring viciously. She felt like she was going to cry; she felt like she was going to vomit. One hand went to her temple, trying to massage inside the bone there, as if that would help.

"I understand I'm not welcome here, but I promise you I come in peace." Vulpes spread his arms, palms up, in a placating gesture that didn't quite seem to fit with the predatory look in his eyes.

"I can't believe you brought a Legionary here." Everyone turned to look at Cass. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, wondering. Her eyes were wide, her skin pale.

"Neither can I," Honey said, trying to find some way to make this right. If only she could start over. She reached out to Cass, setting one hand on the other woman's arm. Cass shook her shoulder, shoving Honey's hand off, frowning at her.

 _Told you to think about this, babydoll. Don't want to cripple the hand this close to the end of the game._

* * *

"What did you want?"

John cracked an eye open and looked at Veronica. She faced away from him, looking across the small yard of the former office park. They were the first words she'd spoken since coming to the night before in the ruins of the train car outside the ruined Followers' outpost. She'd been able to walk with help, though the farther they traveled, the more John had to carry her. When he'd seen a wastelander walking through the heavy junk gate here he'd felt he had no choice but to follow. Even as small as she was and hopped up on Jet, it wasn't like he could walk forever.

"What do you mean?" He watched her over the smoke rising from his cigarette. Her face was blank, as it had been.

She looked down, fidgeting with a loose thread on her new shirt. The folks here had seen how threadbare her robes were – more so after the explosion cast cinders that burned through a large part of her clothes – and offered her some fresh duds. Her short hair just brushed the collar, and it was weird seeing her without the hood. He could see how young she was, now. The power fist she'd refused to part with, and it hung heavily on her left arm.

"Out of life." Her dark eyes met his. It weird how she could look both curious and dead inside at the same time.

John let out a sigh. "I don't have a good answer for that."

"I used to think all I wanted was – well, it doesn't matter now."

He tilted his head, studying her. She looked weighed down, as if she were drowning with rocks tied to her ankles.

"Sure it does."

"It's stupid."

"I'm sure it's not."

Veronica looked away again, eyes unfocused and pointed at the cracked pavement beneath them.

"I just wanted a dress."

John let out a humorless laugh. Ok, maybe that was a little stupid.

"A dress?"

Veronica matched his laugh with own, a bloodless and melancholy thing. "Yeah."

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and thought. No, that wasn't stupid. At least not any stupider than a guy who spent his entire life getting high in an attempt to forget the world he lived in.

"I don't think that's stupid. At least it's something attainable."

The quiet stretched between them, taut and sad.

"And what do you want now?"

Her head went into her hands where they rested on her knees. John thought she was crying but wasn't sure until she picked her head back up and he saw the tears glistening on her cheeks.

"I want to take it all back. I just want to belong again, to keep my head down and do my job."

 _Fuck. Guess that's definitely off the table._

"I don't think you would've been happy if you did that."

Silence again.

"Probably not."

"So you want to belong, but you can't be Brotherhood anymore." Across the concrete lot, a couple kids were playing with a patched rubber ball; the way the particolored hide turned made him dizzy. John stubbed his cigarette out on the pavement.

"I guess."

He should offer. He knew something of being a lost soul. "Why not come with me back to the Strip?"

Veronica gave him the closest thing to a smile that he'd seen in two days, since they'd started climbing the stairs to the outpost. "Why?"

The flask in his jacket pocket was calling his name, and taking a sip would give him time to think, so John uncapped it and took a long pull. When he offered it to Veronica, she hesitated, then took it from him. It was clear she wasn't used to drinking; she choked a bit on the whiskey, coughed, then took another sip. A third, and then the smile seemed more real.

"I know some people up there," he finally said, though that was pretty lame. "Maybe there's a place there for you."

Veronica nodded, handing the flask back, and John took another drink.

"Yeah, okay. Not like I have anything better to do."

"That's the spirit," he said, cuffing her lightly on the shoulder.

* * *

"So let me get this straight." They sat around the table in the dining room of Honey's suite, a collection of liquor bottles between them. Arcade, still sober, stared across the table at Honey where she sat next to Vulpes. The proximity of the Legionary made her skin crawl but if this was going to work she'd have to at least try to trust him.

"You're going to go back to Fortification Hill with him. He's going to help you smuggle in a weapon so you can kill Caesar."

Honey glanced at Vulpes, who gave a nod.

"That's right." She kept her answers brief. It was crazy, she _knew_ it was crazy, but it was the best plan she'd been able to come up with. Taking out a Great Khan in a pit fight was one thing, but there was no way she'd be able to take down the whole fort without something with more kick than a machete. At least not if she had any plans on walking away after.

"I still don't understand why you'd trust him."

She closed her eyes. This was getting tiring. If they ever got this sorted out, she'd sleep for a full day.

If she could win against the Legion, she'd sleep for a _year._

"Have you heard the legend of the Burned Man?" Vulpes's voice slunk across the table like a living thing, a snake maybe, or a nightstalker.

Her eyes flew open.

"I don't think –"

"Of course." Arcade's tone was clipped. Behind his glasses, his eyes blazed. "Everyone around here has."

"It was his idea."

"I thought he was dead."

"He's not," Honey cut in, pulling the heavy chain out from inside her shirt. The crucifix on it caught in her hair, yanking a small strand from her scalp. She pulled it over her head, gave Vulpes a glare that said _be quiet,_ and slid the piece of jewelry across the table to Arcade.

He picked it up and turned it over, the gold of the cross catching the light.

"I don't understand."

"It was my mother's."

"What does that have to do with him, or with the Burned Man?"

Honey drew in a deep breath. Everyone in the room seemed to be watching her. Slowly, to the rhythm of the pounding inside her skull, she let the air back out. She would have to tell it all, or risk losing Arcade.

 _I have to tell him. I can't lose Arcade._

 _You really want to share all your secrets, pussycat?_

 _Not sure I have any other choice._

"I gave it to my father. He sent it with Vulpes, as a sign that I could trust him."

 _Thought you had more jets than that, honey-baby._

"Your father?" She'd never seen Arcade look so surprised. To her right, Vulpes had leaned back in his seat, and she realized for the first time that he hadn't known. Joshua hadn't told him who she was. She'd just assumed he knew but now –

"The Burned Man is your _father?_ " It was hard to read Vulpes's eyes. Across the table, she could hear the flick of a lighter as Cass lit a cigarette. Honey closed her eyes again, slowly, and opened them. The scene hadn't changed. Everyone was still staring at her, and so she nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"So what now?" Arcade, dependable as always, met her eyes. The thread between them, the connection that always made her feel safe, since the first time she'd met him after the bullet, tugged at her. Words seemed to return to her; it was like she could think again.

"Now I return to camp and begin weaving tales of the Courier's exploits in the name of the Legion," Vulpes said, pulling on his hat and standing. He pushed his chair in neatly, finished off the glass of water before him. "That way when she returns with a fabled weapon, I can help her get it into the camp."

"How long should I wait?" He looked down at her critically, and again she had the sensation of him stripping her insides and studying her parts. It was not a pleasant feeling. For a moment she wondered if he remembered her from the camps – but that was stupid, wasn't it? He couldn't be much older than her and maybe he hadn't even been taken by the time she escaped.

"At least a week. That should give me time to bring Caesar's mind where I want it." There was that predatory look on his face again, the one that made her skin crawl. "I wouldn't wait too long, though," he said, almost as if it were an afterthought. "Lanius is getting quite…impatient."

The Legionary, dressed in his profligate clothes, saw himself out. When the elevator door had closed behind them and there was silence in the hall again, Honey turned back to the other two.

"I can't fuckin' believe this," Cass said, giving voice to the sentiments of the room.

"Pass me that whiskey, would you?" Honey slid bottle at her elbow across the polished wood to Arcade. He caught it easily, poured about three fingers into the empty glass before him, and swallowed it in one gulp. He stared at the bottle for a moment, then poured another few fingers and picked up the glass, holding it in one large hand.

"I don't like it." He took another sip, and inside her chest Honey felt as if something was stretching to the breaking point. Arcade picked up the crucifix and studied it for another moment, the gleaming man on his wooden cross; a symbol of pre-war religion coopted by the Legion.

 _You know why it bothers him, right, pussycat?_

 _Yeah, I do. Bothers me too._

"It's the only way."

"I don't trust him," Cass said, taking another lazy drag from her cigarette. "Legion's a bunch of fuckers."

Arcade slid the crucifix back across the table. It landed in Honey's lap, heavy as a slave collar. She put it back on, slipping it under her hair and back inside her shirt. Tried not to think of the connotation.

"I'm not sure I do either," she said softly, her voice echoing off the wooden table. "But I trust Joshua Graham."

Arcade finished his whiskey and set the glass back down. "Well, if you trust him, then so do I. How do we make this happen?"

* * *

"We're going in _there?_ " Veronica stood in front of the Lucky 38, stock-still and gaping. Had she ever seen the bright lights of New Vegas before? John tried to remember how he'd felt the first time he made it through the Strip gates, but even though it had only been a few months, it still seemed impossible. So much had changed; he was still the same Southie bastard he'd always been, but bright lights weren't quite as stunning once you'd seen what was underneath the veneer of the city.

Getting her through the gate had been more difficult than he'd thought; without the two-thousand cap minimum to enter, they'd needed to go back to Mick and Ralph's and get a faked passport for her. "Nice to see you again, John," Ralph had said with a knowing smile. "How's the sexbot workin' out for you?"

He'd smiled vaguely, a little confused. He remembered getting the tape for Garrett, but he thought he'd been clear that it was a straight pimp job and not for his personal use. No matter, he'd shrugged it off and taken the forged papers so they could be on the way back home, ignoring the amused and slightly horrified looks Veronica had given him.

Now they stood before the massive casino, Veronica goggling like a farmer on her first trip to the big city – which, he supposed, she was. It was getting dark and against the black sky to the east, the Lucky 38's lights glowed white and red on the girl's face.

"We sure are, sister," he said, hooking an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to the door. Veronica let him pull her along, though the doubtful look never quite left her face; then again, she'd worn it since he'd said she should come with him. It had replaced the blankness after the debacle at the Followers' outpost, but something about her remained distant.

The Brotherhood soldiers had been planning to kill them. He knew he'd done right thing, but still – he knew she ached for them, for the brothers she'd lost that day. For the family she'd never have again.

They rode the elevator up to the presidential suite in silence, the only sounds the dinging of floors going by and the rushing sound of the metal box making its way up the inside of the building. Finally the doors opened, and he gripped her elbow, guiding her in.

For a moment he thought the suite was empty; then there was the padding of soft footprints, and Cass appeared around a corner.

"John?" She looked surprised, or maybe pleased. From behind her came a rustle of fabric and paper, and then Honey and Arcade stepped out of the lounge with her, all three of them approaching him at once. He tried to flash them a grin – rakish was the best look for him, after all – but the three friends were there at once, each asking questions and greeting him in a flurry of excitement.

"Where have you been?" This was Cass, who gave him punch on the shoulder.

"I've missed you." Arcade leaned in to brush a kiss on his cheek, and the motion sent a hot shiver of longing through John, deep into the pit of him. There'd be time to greet him properly later, but he still couldn't stop himself from turning his face to meet Arcade's lips and plant a proper kiss on him as Cass gave a whistle.

"Glad to see you here, Veronica." Honey flashed him a smile but turned her eyes to the young woman standing next to him, and he felt a twinge of gratitude to her, for always welcoming new people. Whatever had happened to her, however foolish it was to trust new people in this world, her giving nature never stopped surprising him.

"Thanks." Veronica looked nervous so he gave her shoulder a squeeze and announced her to everyone. In a moment, Cass was on her like a mother hen, escorting the girl back to the lounge for a drink, pointing to the bathroom and explaining about the tubs and how much better they were than a sponge bath, asking if she needed a place to stay.

Maybe Honey wasn't the only one to be so trusting; sometimes people amazed you.

He didn't have time to mull it over though, because then Honey had her arms wrapped around him, a warm and enveloping hug that drew him in and made him feel safe again; until this moment, he hadn't realized how hard the last week had been. Veronica, like a sad millstone around his neck, weighing him down with all the things she'd lost. Missing Arcade and Honey. Homesickness.

Homesickness?

Yeah. Despite himself, and maybe because of Veronica's yearning for the family she'd walked away from, he'd thought more often of the Commonwealth. Of Kent Connolly in his room at the Memory Den, of Nick and his little detective business, of Wiseman and the ghouls at their new home. Getting noodles in the Market, buying chems off Fred at the Rexford.

The longer he stayed in the Mojave, the more he wondered if he belonged here.

Questions like that dropped out of his mind completely, though, when Arcade took him into his arms again. His body was so warm against John's; with the doctor's coat off, he could feel every inch of muscle and fat and bone pressed up against him. There was no need to question where his home was, not with Arcade's thigh against the meeting of his legs, not when he felt that snake jump in his pants at the thought of heading somewhere more private.

"Looks like you two need some alone time." They pulled apart at Honey's voice, at the teasing quality of it. "Maybe you want to go to the Penthouse?"

"No, I should hear about –"

"Yes." Arcade spoke at the same time he did, cheeks flushing as he realized what he'd said. It didn't matter, though, because Honey was pushing them both bodily towards the elevator – he'd forgotten how strong she was – with murmurs about how they could talk in the morning, there'd be plenty of time while they got ready, and to have fun.

As if he ever needed to be told twice.

* * *

Morning came too soon, especially given the massive windows of the penthouse that lit up the interior with bright sunlight. John groaned and rolled over, seeking out the bottle of vodka they'd left on the floor next to the bed. He definitely had a hangover, and he'd rather not. Honey had said they could talk in the morning, but she surely didn't mean this early, which meant he had plenty of time for a repeat performance.

He fumbled around on the floor, his fingers finding the tin of Mentats he'd left there. Those'd help, he thought, and fumbled out a few without opening his eyes. Swallowed them down, chased them with a couple swigs of clear vodka, and rolled over.

Arcade was sitting up, obviously woken by the movement of the bed. Wrapped in sheets barely paler than his skin, his eyes were still sleepy, hair tousled. Again there was the feeling of something hot coiling tightly in John's belly, and he traced one lazy hand up Arcade's thigh, reveling at the muscle there, at the way it twitched on contact.

"Mornin'," he said, leaning in to press a kiss against Arcade's throat. There was a moment where Arcade looked as if he might say something, but then that turned into a moan as a shiver worked through him. He watched Arcade's parted lips as the sound came out, and John could feel himself growing hard again. He let his hand drift across the patch of fair hair on Arcade's stomach, a tease that bypassed the area he really wanted it; then Arcade's hand was over his own, forcing it back down to grip the erection forming there. The skin was soft, smooth, though he was getting stiff.

Arcade pressed him back into the pillows, his mouth moving down John's chest in hot, wet kisses that made his skin tingle. The Mentats began rolling through him, everything burning a bit brighter, and he realized he could feel absolutely every sensation, every hair that Arcade touched. The only thing that might make this better was a hit of Jet – he tossed the idea back and forth, a ball kicked by his brain only to be sent back by that needy pit inside him, and then passed to the brain again. Finally, just as Arcade's mouth met the inside of his thigh with an obscene wet smacking sound and a spark in his brain, he sat up.

"You mind if I…?"

"If you what?" He looked younger in the morning, face rested from sleep, one cheek creased from the soft fabric of the pillow. The fine hairs of his stubble glowed in the sun behind him; one shoulder was outlined in golden light.

"Hang on," John said, crawling out from beneath Arcade. He crossed the room to his pack, feet slapping against the cool tile. A moment of rummaging, and then there was an inhaler of Ultra in his hand.

Arcade's face turned into a hesitant frown. "I don't know –"

John sat back on the bed, the pink inhaler between them. "You don't have to, if you don't want to. But I thought I might, you know, while you…?" He looked up hopefully, trying to ignore the sudden feeling that he'd fucked up.

There was a war of ideas, of feelings, that crossed Arcade's face then, and the pit of John's stomach dropped out. He was about to say nevermind, he didn't need it, all he needed was _him,_ and then Arcade nodded, shrugged.

"I guess if you – if you want to," Arcade said, his voice uncertain.

He should have known Arcade would be okay with it. He was cool; relief flooded his hands, his feet.

"But I want to – uhm," he fidgeting, looking strange and uncomfortable, and John set one hand on his calf. "I want to try it, too."

That was a surprise.

"Really?"

A nod, more decisive this time. "Yes. I think so, anyway."

John shrugged, though inside he felt like screaming. He couldn't help his elation; to share something like this with his – lover? Main man? – felt like an enormous gift, one he couldn't possibly deserve. A smile made its way across his face, the excitement and thrill of it so intense he couldn't help himself. He handed Arcade the inhaler and watched as the doctor put it to his lips, never taking his eyes off John, and pushed down, taking the gas in.

A moment later, Arcade was coughing, gagging. John had been using Jet so long that he'd forgotten how it could be at first, the earthy methane flavor of the gas like brahmin dung. He leaned over and grabbed the vodka bottle from the floor. He watched Arcade take a swig, then another, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

"I can't believe you – _ohhhhhh._ " With a heavy sigh, Arcade fell back on the pillows, almost dropping the bottle before John could grab it. He smiled as Arcade's face went slack, then dreamy, and he pressed himself down into the cloud of the bed. John set the bottle on the floor and took the inhaler delicately from Arcade's hand. He took his own deep hit, then another, and let the Jet fall to the floor with a clatter.

They lay there together, tangled in blankets and pillows and each other, and John became acutely aware of the way his body pulsed so close to Arcade's; each place their skin touched was like a slow-burning fire, sparking and vibrant.

* * *

"You didn't sleep with him, right?"

" _What?_ " That was an insane question, Honey thought, but Cass seemed to think it reasonable.

"That Legion guy, Vulpes. You didn't, you know, do the horizontal tango with him, right? That's not why you're willing to try this crazy-ass fucking plan?"

The idea made Honey's skin crawl; it made her want to run to the toilet and bring dinner back up. If Veronica hadn't been splashing around in the tub, she might have.

"No! Fuck, no. Mi mamá would – _ugh._ " Honey shivered, completely revolted by the question. Vulpes might be helping her – she hoped, she prayed that this wasn't some elaborate scheme to get her killed – but that was no reason to trust him. Even if the very look of his eyes hadn't made her skin crawl, she remembered the girls being taken to the Legionaries on command.

The screams had never left her ears; even when she couldn't remember who she was, they had lingered somewhere inside her.

She took a deep breath and looked Cass in the eye. Clearly she didn't really understand what she was implying; it's not like she ever had to watch her sisters get dragged off to fuck some Legionary and his friends, or to try to service a hound while a group of men twice her age watched.

Some days, she wished her memories had stayed gone.

It would be easy to blow up at Cass, to storm out and walk away, but with John and Arcade sequestered upstairs and heading into day two of their reunion, she'd have nowhere to go and no one to be there with. She supposed she could head towards Cottonwood Cove, but it still seemed too soon to take off.

"Legion's not my type," she said briefly, and the gleam in Cass's eye made her wonder where she'd gone wrong.

"No, but Benny is. I hear." A chill went through Honey's skin, her brain on lockdown. And still, Cass smiled, clearly unaware of what a bombshell she'd dropped.

"Where did you hear that?"

Now Cass looked surprised; any venom that had been in her tone, any teasing, vanished. "From you. After we took out the Omertas? You don't remember?"

There was a dim memory of Cass helping her across the street, but mostly all Honey could recall was the pain in her head and her shoulder, a bottle of whiskey and Arcade stitching her up, John smiling at her, and then the pit of Med-X swallowing her down. She shook her head to try to clear it, and Cass's expression gentled.

"He an old boyfriend?"

The laugh that came out of Honey surprised even her. "I guess that's one way to look at it. He's the one who –" she pointed to her temple, to the angry ridged scar there.

"Bad breakup then?"

This time Honey really did laugh. "You could say that, I guess. I had something he wanted."

"Boy does he sound like a keeper." Cass threw herself back on the couch, stretching. "Fuck, I'm so _bored._ We need to get out of here, meet some men! Dr. Do-gooder is fine and all, but I need to get wasted and have some fun, y'know?"

Honey did know. Now that Cass had said it, she couldn't help but feel that old itch in her feet that told her it was time to start wandering again.

Veronica padded in with a yawn, hair damp from her bath, wearing a sparkly cocktail dress she'd found in one of the closets. The green and gold sequins didn't quite go with the heavy power fist on her arm, but she looked happier than she had when she'd come in the night before.

"So, what's there to do for fun around here?"

Cass began to giggle, and then Honey found herself joining in.

"I guess we're going out," she said as Cass linked arms with her on one side and Veronica on the other.


	26. Though I May Have Done Some Foolin'

Way Back Home: Though I May Have Done Some Foolin'

Notes: A little something light before we head back out into the darkness.

* * *

They really should get up and head back down the presidential suite, John thought idly as he ran his hand over Arcade's thigh. In sleep, the doctor's face relaxed. He could see the beginning of faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes; his eyelashes fluttered like bird wings over his cheeks, black and soft. It was hard to think of unraveling himself from Arcade's body; it would be impossible to get up and leave this cocoon of pleasure, to go back downstairs and back to work.

Between kisses, between moans and groping, they'd filled each other in on what had happened since John and Honey left the research hospital. He'd told Arcade about how Honey had taken on the Great Khans and come out with their backing; when he'd told about her ring fight against Karl, Arcade's eyes had gone wide. Arcade had told him what he'd discovered – some research into brain surgery that looked promising but might prove to be very dangerous. John had told him about the Brotherhood and how he and Veronica had barely made it out of the Followers' outpost; Arcade had responded by kissing his bruises and inspecting the laceration on his right arm to determine if it needed stitches.

He'd told Arcade about Nicole, about finding her and losing her again. About the deadened look in her eyes and the way her bones had rattled when she hit the wall. The shape of the bloodstain under her head on the concrete floor; the constellations of bruises and track marks on her wasted body. When he'd cried, Arcade had held him.

Arcade let out a soft snore that made his heart fill, made the intangible threads between them stretch so tight he thought he wouldn't be able to speak.

They really should get up and get back to work, but here in his lover's pale arms, watching him sleep, John knew there was no way he could rush that. Not when he'd finally found a home, a place and a person with whom he belonged. If only he could just stay here forever –

He leaned back a bit, rifling through the nightstand drawer, and found what he was looking for. The thing that would make this really perfect was a hit of Jet, and he found the inhaler without much trouble. He closed his eyes and huffed in the gas, holding it as long as he could before letting it drift out his mouth to the ceiling. One more small hit, and he stowed it away; when he turned back, Arcade was half awake and staring at him sleepily.

Was it the Ultra-Jet, or were Arcade's eyes always so green, so sparkling and clear? He was just starting to drift, to feel every spot on his body that touched Arcade's burning with soft heat, so maybe it was just the chem use.

"I love you, you know."

He smiled back down, so big he thought his face would break, and pressed a kiss to the top of Arcade's head. "I love you, too."

* * *

At first glance, nothing appeared different about the Gomorrah. If she hadn't known the true seediness of the place under the Omertas, it was possible Honey wouldn't have noticed the changes; but she had, and so she did. The thug at the door had been replaced with a particularly beefy female ghoul. She stood over six feet tall and carried a gun so big Honey wondered how she could have possibly gotten it through the door.

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave your weapons with me," the ghoul said politely, her voice gravel and dirt. That was definitely different from the sneering and obscene rudeness of the Omerta greeter, if he could have been called that.

"Oh no, sweetie, that won't be necessary." A silky voice came from behind the ghoul, and they all turned to look. Coming through the doorway was Joana, though she looked markedly different from the last time Honey had seen her. The angular curves of Med-X abuse were gone, as was the revealing leather get-up. She wore her hair down, shining in the dim lighting, and a low-cut cocktail dress that highlighted – well, just about everything. "This is the _Courier._ "

For the first time since her meeting with Hanlon, Honey finally understood what he'd been getting at. The way Joana said the word "courier" – so different from Vulpes's vicious hiss – sounded like a title, like she was someone important. Honey blinked, glancing from Veronica to Cass, who gave her a wink and a laugh.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, ma'am," the ghoul said, suddenly very obsequious. She unhooked a red velvet gate and stepped aside with an awkward flourish. "I didn't realize who you were."

Honey realized then it was she the ghoul was addressing, not Joana. A hot flush worked its way over her cheeks and she was about to stammer out something about how no one needed to call her ma'am, she was just a package courier and nobody special, but then Joana's arm was linked in her own and they were led through the casino to the bar in the back. Up some stairs, through a maze of hallways, and then they were on the balcony that overlooked Brimstone at a table where they had a view of the dancers on stage.

This, at least, had stayed the same. Ghouls and humans, male and female; there was enough variety of naked flesh writhing on stage for anyone, she thought unsteadily. Joana vanished to the bar and returned with a man trailing her, a tray of drinks in his hand. It took her a moment to realize it was Cachino; she'd only met the man once, when John castrated him on the floor of the bar below them.

"Cachino, please serve our guests," Joana said pleasantly, though there was nothing sweet or kind about the look in her eyes as she watched him neatly place the drinks on the table. Once the three of them had been served, Joana turned back to them. "I hope you like the changes we've implemented," she said, patting Honey and Cass on the shoulders. "And feel free to visit the Pleasure Garden – that's what we've renamed the courtyard. First one's on me."

With a wink, she disappeared.

Cass burst out laughing. "That was weird."

"I'm really glad I'm not the only one who noticed that," Veronica agreed, picking up the glass in front of her and inspecting it carefully. "What do you suppose this is?"

"Does it matter?" Cass took a long swig of the drink in front of her and smiled. "It's amazing."

Veronica sniffed carefully, then took a small swallow and winced. "It's strong."

"That's how you know it's working." Cass clapped her on the shoulder. "Give it a bit and it'll grow on you."

Veronica did, taking a longer sip this time. Cass lit a cigarette and passed her pack over to Honey, who took one with a nod of thanks. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off the dancers below, the sinuous ways they moved their bodies hypnotizing her.

"You're awful quiet there," Cass prodded her, and Honey turned back from watching the movements of the dancers onstage. For a moment there, she'd almost been relaxed, but now the thought of everything ahead of her returned. So many things to take care of.

"Sorry," Honey shook her head, as if that could possibly clear out everything weighing her down. "A lot on my mind."

"Is it the surgery?" Cass's big eyes were sympathetic, something she hadn't seen before.

"Surgery?" Veronica frowned. "What for?"

Honey gestured to the scar on her temple. "Got shot in the head last year. There's been a lot of…well, I get headaches. Bad ones, like my cabeza's going to split open. Makes it hard to function. Arcade thinks…" She tapped the ash off her cigarette into the small glass ashtray at the center of the table. "He might have found a way to help with the pain, but it involves surgery."

"We're not sure…how it'll go," Cass chimed in.

Veronica's mouth hung open, and she must have realized it because she closed it quickly. "The courier shot in the head – that was _you?_ "

Cass leaned forward, cigarette caught between her teeth, and grinned as she put a hand on Honey's shoulder. "We got a real-life legend sitting here with us, don't we?"

"I guess so." Veronica took another sip of her drink, and Honey looked away, back down at the dancers. She knew she should try to relax – Vulpes said to give him a week and it had only been a couple days - but this all seemed like a waste of time. Something inside her skin seemed to itch; she needed to get back on the road soon before she lost her chance.

The writhing of the strippers – could you call them that when they were already almost naked? - made her dizzy; she turned back to the women at the table.

"Anyway –" she tried again, and both their smiles died. "I have too many things to do before I even consider it."

A cloud passed over Cass's face. "I don't trust that guy, Honey."

Around her neck, the crucifix seemed too warm against her skin. She thought again of her Mamá, of everything she'd done to get Mercedes out of the Legion. _And here I'm trying to go walking back in. Lo siento, mamita._

 _Don't forget about me, pussycat._

 _How could I forget you, pendejo, with the lovely parting gift you gave me?_

"What guy?" Veronica looked from Cass to Honey, then back to Cass. "What guy don't you trust?"

Honey shook her head, trying to get out of the funk that had settled over her. "Doesn't matter. Not sure I trust any guy, really, except maybe Arcade. And John."

That was a pleasant thought. She might be impatient to get back on the road and finish this thing, but at least the two of them had each other. It would be a shame to take John away from him; there was no way she could risk Arcade at Fortification Hill. He could handle himself, but still –

"Well, shit, I like 'em but I don't think I trust any man, even those two," Cass said as she gestured to a waitress for fresh drinks. "Shame I can't get them to put a show on for me, though."

Veronica let out a laugh. "I'll trust a guy but – eh, not my type."

Cass raised a brow at her, and did Honey imagine it, or did she move her chair a bit closer to the girl? "Really now? What _is_ your type?"

Ok, she definitely _wasn't_ imaging it; Veronica tilted her head to a coy angle and fluttered her eyelashes at Cass. " _Not_ men," she said with a laugh.

 _Damn, pussycat, you found yourself a hot little number, didn't you? Feel free to bring her with us next time._

 _Which one?_

 _Either one. They're platinum. We could make a party of it. You, your special ladies, and the Ben-man._

 _You're disgusting._

Fresh drinks arrived, and Honey realized she hadn't even started her first one. If the point of this excursion was to forget, she was doing a piss-poor job. She picked up her glass and drank quickly, swallowing the whole thing down. The liquor went down easily and then tried to revolt. She picked up her cigarette and took a long drag, fighting to keep everything down. After a moment she was clear again.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers," Cass was saying when Honey turned back to them.

"Who's that?"

Veronica gave a giggle. "Jo- _ohn,_ " she sighed, clasping her hands before her and pretending to swoon. "Cass has a big ol' crush on him!"

Cass's cheeks flamed as red as her hair. "I do not! I'll have you know I'm very open-minded. I'd take that guy," she gestured below, where a man in little more than a leather thong danced. "Or her," the woman next to him, a dark-skinned beauty with short hair who was chained to a pole. "I'm…what do you call it? Indiscriminate."

Veronica dissolved into a fit of giggles. Honey looked over and realized the girl had finished both her drinks already; that explained some things.

"Besides, he's a very good-looking man," Cass continued, leaning her chair back and crossing her arms. Clearly she felt the need to defend herself. "I bet he'd be something in bed, too. Fucking him would be a hell of a thing, right Honey?"

She felt the blush flare up over her cheeks. Was it hot in here? Hopefully her skin was dark enough they wouldn't notice –

"Oh wow," Veronica said, eyes wide as she stared at her. _Shit._ "Honey, have you – you know, with John?"

"Waiter!" Honey waved across the room to a young man with a tray. "We're going to need another round here!"

"Wow," Cass said, her chair dropping back down to the floor with a loud thump. "Good for you, girl. Now," she leaned forward over the table, elbows resting on the wood surface. "Tell us _all_ about it."

* * *

"I'll be back out in a minute." Arcade's called from the bathroom. John nodded, realized Arcade couldn't see him, and then raised his voice to answer back.

"Take your time!"

The lid on the Mentats tin didn't seem to want to open; he struggled with it, finally managing to depress the worn metal enough to get it open. Inside he seemed to be getting very low on the chalky pills, though he found the thin vial from the research hospital again. Printed on the side of the syringe's wrapper in faded seafoam-green letters it said Rad-Safe!

He stared at it; in all the excitement over the last couple months he'd forgotten he had it. Still didn't know why he'd brought it with him. What had the terminal said about it? Killed almost everyone who took it, introduced advanced radiation sickness, something like that?

And the phrase "blissful euphoria" seemed to stand out in his memory. For a moment, John stared at it, wondering if he should pull it out and use it. He could always go for some blissful euphoria, after all – who couldn't? But then there was the sound of Arcade coming back, and something told him he wouldn't approve of the risk, so John scooped a handful of Mentats out of the tin and swallowed them, chasing them with a bottle of beer snitched from the bar downstairs.

He was just sliding the tin back into his pack when he felt Arcade's lips on his shoulder. "More Mentats?"

John turned, rolling onto his back. There was concern behind the lust in Arcade's eyes.

"I just want to feel every second of this," he said softly, reaching up behind Arcade's neck and lacing his fingers together. John pulled him down and Arcade came, their lips together, and oh, did he feel _everything._

* * *

"So we're coming up the I-15, right, and stumble on a deathclaw nest. There's just – there's fucking lizards _everywhere,_ you know?" Veronica, staring at Cass, nodded. "And right off the bat they kill the pack brahmin, so all my shit's lying all over the goddamn highway like an old-world yard sale."

"And then what happened?" Veronica's eyes were huge. Honey, who'd heard this tall tale before, tried to muffle a snorting laugh by taking a sip of her drink and only succeeded in squirting tequila out of her nose.

Fuck, that _burned._

"Well, then they killed my guards and I'm scrambling up this tower, right? The fuckers are below, slashing their claws around, trying to figure out how to climb the ladder." Cass gestured in an imitation of the deathclaws she said she'd escaped, waving her arm around and narrowly missing hitting a passing waiter with the lit cigarette she held.

"So, I'm figuring I'm stuck up here and I'm going to die. And then here come a bunch of fucking cazadores, like ten or twelve of them. So now I'm really dead, right, because I can outclimb the deathclaws, at least for a little while, but these assholes can fly."

Veronica let out a little gasp and Cass glanced past her to give Honey a wink.

"And then – no idea why – but one of the cazadores lands at the top of this tower where I'm holed up and counting my ammo and sits there, staring at me. Biggest fucking bug I've ever seen, big as a bighorner. I'm looking at it, and it's looking at me, and I'm thinking I should be shooting it but I don't."

"Why didn't you?"

"Fuck if I know. Maybe so I'd have a good story later?" Veronica and Honey both let out a laugh. She might've heard this one before, but there was no denying that Cass told it well. Even if it probably never happened. "So I don't shoot this thing, and I don't even know why – I should, it's going to sting me and I know it, but I don't. Instead it turns around and does this little dance, lifting its feet and waving its wings at me."

"Finally I get the idea that it wants me to climb on its back and I'm thinking to myself, 'What the fuck is going on here? Why would I do that?' But the deathclaws are smashing the supports on the tower trying to break the fucking thing, and it's starting to buckle and I've wasted all this time I could've spent shooting all those monsters staring at the damn bug, so…I did. I climbed on its back and it took off and carried me all the way over Sloan. Set me down right in front of the Crimson Caravan headquarters."

"Nuh-uh," Veronica said, though the way her eyes shone said she desperately wanted the whole insane story to be true. Cass, the very picture of honesty with wide eyes and a neutral expression, nodded.

"I swear on my daddy's grave, every last word is true. That's how I got through Sloan."

"Doesn't sound like you got _through_ it," Veronica leaned back and gave her a smirk, no longer the ingénue, so eager to hear a pack of lies. Honey let out a small laugh. "Sounds like you almost died and then made up this crazy story to impress people."

Cass laughed. "I swear, every word of it was true!"

"No way, no one gets that far through Sloan. That's like getting up to Nellis."

"Hey, Honey did that!" She turned, saw Cass pointing an adamant finger at her. Veronica rolled her eyes.

"Excuse me if I don't buy another one of your whoppers."

"Tell her, Honey!"

Both pairs of eyes rolled to her and she let out a chuckle. Finally, a few drinks in, Honey felt her limbs going gooey. She took a sip of her drink and gave a small nod; she was getting light-headed. Soon it'd be time to call it a night.

 _These pretty babies are as nuts as you are, pussycat._

"I did. Never made it through Sloan though. Not for lack of trying."

"Oh, did cazadores the size of a brahmin –"

"I said bighorner," Cass interjected, then turned to wave for a new round. With a sigh and a rolling of her eyes, a waitress headed back to the bar.

"Whatever, bigger than any cazador is or will ever be. Did they come and save you? Are you two, like, co-Queens of the Flying Death Monsters now?"

Honey, in the middle of finishing her drink, gave a spluttering laugh. The liquor came up through her nose and back into her drink, burning as it went. Lovely. She set it aside and shook her head at the fiery sensation in her nose.

"Nothing like that," she said when the burning stopped, meeting Veronica's eyes. "Only made it as far as Goodsprings."

"Oh, that's a nice town. What happened there?"

Honey made a gun symbol with her hand, her ring and pinky fingers curled against the palm and the other two pointing like a barrel and put the tips of her fingers up against her temple.

"There was this guy," she said. "It didn't end well."

The table went quiet. Cass wouldn't look at her, instead focusing her eyes on the collection of half-empty glasses on the table. Veronica's eyes were huge in her small face, dark and bottomless and pitying.

"Oh," she said.

"Fucking _guys,_ " Cass mumbled into her glass.

"It's okay," Honey tried, taking a sip of her new drink as soon as the waitress set it down. "I'm okay."

 _Keep saying it, babydoll, maybe it'll come true._

"Well." Cass stood suddenly and the table rocked with the sudden motion. "Joana said we should take a trip through the Pleasure Garden and I, for one, am just drunk enough to give it a try." She glanced between the two of them. "Anyone want to join me?"

* * *

After two hundred years, there really wasn't much to eat in the kitchen that hadn't spoiled ages ago. Still, John was able to pull some stuff from his pack – a deathclaw egg Honey had given him, some other things she'd taught him to scavenge – and make something that passed for dinner, or maybe an early breakfast. He'd put on pants to cook while Arcade was showering but padded around in his bare feet. The massive screen in the living area grinned inanely, never blinking, never speaking.

 _Kinda creepy._

Nothing like coming down to something delicious after a good fuck and a hot shower, he thought, using his combat knife to smash open the hard shell of the egg. The yellow-and-white inside spilled into the hot pan on the stove, hissing and spitting; he turned the heat down and turned back to slicing tatos and peppers. At his elbow was a bottle of vodka, slim and cold from sitting in the refrigerator.

Sometimes the Lucky 38 was the weirdest place he thought he'd ever been. Who could have imagined working refrigerators back home? A way to keep food from spoiling? Fuckin' genius.

He picked up the vodka and took a swig; the alcohol burned down his throat, but the way it interacted with the Mentats was always something special. He could feel it happening now, a looseness in the back of his brain, like a spring that'd sprung.

A sprung spring. Hah, that was funny.

The vegetables went in and he stirred everything up, adding some cheese to the top. Turned the heat down to let it cook through, then began to clean up. Dishes in the sink, hot water to wash them. Soon enough the kitchen was clean and the food was done; he pulled it off the heat and set the pan on a cool burner. Another sip of vodka and he found his combat knife sitting next to it. That didn't belong there; he picked it up and tossed it. It spun in the air, catching the light on its blade as it went, and then he caught it easily, hand wrapping around the hilt.

Where was Arcade? Longest fucking shower anyone's ever taken.

John tossed the knife again, took a swig from the vodka bottle, and then caught it with a flourish. _Shame no one was here to see that catch, it was pretty fuckin' good._

Next time he threw the knife he sent a spin through it and turned on his heel, as if in time to music. Came back around and caught it smoothly. Man, he was on fire.

He decided to try it again, figured he'd practice for when Arcade came down, maybe show off a little. The second time it went well, but the third time he stumbled, missing his cue, and the knife came down wrong, slicing a couple fingers as he tried to catch the blade instead of the handle. There was a sear of sudden pain as the skin split and a wet splatter of blood on the kitchen floor.

"Fuck!" He clutched his hand, watching blood seep red through his fingers. Trying not to slip on the blood leaking through his hand, John turned and thrust his fingers under the faucet in the sink. The cool water was soothing and he watched as the blood and the water mingled in the bottom of the steel basin, pink and thin, before washing down the drain. With his left hand he groped for the vodka bottle and lifted it to his lips.

"What happened?" Arcade's voice came from across the bar, and John jumped, vodka spilling down his chest in a cool rush.

He turned, keeping his hand under the water, and met Arcade's eyes. The way he stood, across the bar, he looked stiff, even uncomfortable. None of that mattered though, not when he was wearing a pair of navy blue undershorts and nothing else. Just the sight of him made John hungry, and not for food. Still, it was made and they should eat it.

For what he had planned, they'd need the energy.

"Just a little cooking accident," John told him, setting the vodka bottle back down.

"Throwing your knife around is a cooking accident now?" There was something accusatory in his tone, or maybe in the look in his eye. Maybe he had seen it.

"It was going well before I missed."

"I saw." A shadow behind Arcade's eyes – disappointment? And then it cleared. "So – what's for dinner?"

* * *

"Yipee yay, there'll be no wedding bells for today." Cass's voice carried across the broken asphalt road between the Gomorrah and the Lucky 38. On Honey's arm, the Pip-Boy made the song sound tinny, but it could barely be heard once Veronica joined in singing the chorus.

"Cause I got spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle," she bellowed, horribly off-key.

"Jingle-jangle," Cass chimed in as the harmony.

The two of them linked arms and began dancing a sort of soft-shoe in the street.

"As I go ridin' merrily along." Veronica lowered her voice in an attempt to sound more masculine, perhaps, but it came out creaky, like a boy going through puberty. Honey tried to look serious and push them towards home, but found herself sitting on the curb, head in her hands as she laughed.

"Jingle-jangle!" Cass screamed, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. She raised her arm and led Veronica into a turn. Veronica, clearly not expecting this, turned the wrong way, her spare hand making fluttery motions with the skirt of her new dress. The sequins caught the light, green and gold reflecting back.

"And they sing, oh, ain't you glad you're single?" They both sang this part together, unaware of the Securitron that had rolled up behind them until Cass swung into it, her chest bouncing off the torso section of the machine so hard she fell backwards onto her ass, laughing and staring up at the robot in front of her.

"Boy, you're a whole lotta man, ain't you?" She slurred and Veronica collapsed in the street, giggling so hard she almost couldn't breathe.

The angry policeman on the Securitron's screen frowned at them. "Move along."

* * *

"I'm worried about you."

John tipped his head up to look at Arcade. All he could see at first was the line of his chin, the strong jaw that disappeared into the pillow under their heads, faint golden hairs glinting in the glow of the neon outside. Somehow it was night; he didn't know if he'd fallen asleep or blacked out, but the last thing he remembered was a gilded late afternoon, the sun behind them and the clouds outside lined in coral and lavender.

Focusing was hard. It felt like a deathclaw had taken a shit inside his skull. Where were his smokes? He shifted slightly, and Arcade moved away from him, his warm skin disappearing to the other side of the bed. John fumbled around on the nightstand and found his cigarettes, a lighter, an overflowing ashtray. As he struggled to light the cigarette – it looked like there were two in his mouth, but that couldn't be right – he caught a whiff of himself. Sweat and sex and booze, the stink of a good couple days spent in bed with his lover. Dirty in the best possible way.

Holding his cigarette away so he wouldn't burn Arcade – although after the thing they tried earlier, maybe he'd d be down for a little pain – he laid a kiss on Arcade's chest.

Or tried to, at any rate. Instead he found himself crashing into the mattress, feet tangled in the top sheet, face landing in a pillow.

Arcade had climbed out the other side of the bed and stood now, pulling his pants on over his underwear. He looked disheveled and beautiful, pale skin marked with lovebites and bruises, hair tousled from the two days – or was it three? – lost in bed together. He'd put his glasses on and he stood tall, reaching above his head, the pad of fat around his waist stretching to make him lean.

John felt a twist in his stomach. Fuck, had he gotten lucky. And shit, what had Arcade said?

He took another puff of his smoke and blew it out the opposite side of his mouth.

"What's that now?"

"You. This," Arcade gestured at the bed, at the collection of empty liquor bottles around the floor. There were a few cashed Jet inhalers between the glassware, an empty tin of Mentats lying on its side. The room was definitely a mess.

"I can clean up." After all, it was downright dangerous to leave so much glass on the floor. Someone could get hurt.

John leaned over and opened the drawer on the nightstand. A little nip from his stash, maybe some Mentats, would help him focus so he could pack up their trash. But there was nothing in there, nothing but a half-empty spare pack of cigarettes, and he let out a groan.

"It's not about cleaning up, John." Arcade's voice was tight, impatient. Slowly – painfully – John turned to look at him. Arcade had slid his shirt on when he wasn't looking and half the buttons were already done up. The look on his face was one he'd seen before, and he let out a sigh. This argument again. It wasn't like Arcade was the first person he'd taken to bed who thought the chems were a problem the next morning.

"What is it about, then?" John put the cigarette in the ashtray and climbed out from under the covers. The cool air of the penthouse prickled his bare skin and he leaned over to grab Arcade's belt, pulling him closer. Slipped his hands under Arcade's shirt, caressing the skin there.

But it didn't work – Arcade took a step back, twisting out of his grip, and finished buttoning his shirt up, his back to John.

He climbed off the bed and walked over Arcade, wrapping his arms around the man's waist and pressing his bare chest to his back. He could feel the shiver that went through his lover's body at the contact, and permitted himself a small smile.

Yeah, he could have him back in bed and panting his name in a minute.

Arcade was too tall for John to nuzzle his neck comfortably, but he tried anyway, nipping at the man's shirt collar and pulling it down to expose a bit of his neck. Arcade's hands met his own, wrapped around them –

And forcibly removed them from his waist.

"Stop that."

John blinked, took a step back. His foot crashed into a bottle on the floor that went over, spinning, sending a wet spray of vodka across the tile.

"What d'you mean? You weren't sayin' no earlier." A smile, the lascivious one, the one that always made Arcade give in.

And still no dice. No, Arcade's face seemed to waver between frustration and – what was the other feeling? Melancholy? Resignation? If only his head didn't hurt so bad, maybe he could figure it out.

"You haven't been sober since you got back."

John raised an eyebrow at that. "Didn't hear you complainin' when we took that Jet the other day."

A huffing sigh and a headshake from Arcade. "You've been high on chems every minute we've been together. You wake up in the middle of the night to take more of them. You – you take them while I'm –" He swallowed and shook his head again.

Something inside John tore, ripping out of his chest to flop in a messy pile in his stomach. Was that his heart?

This wasn't happening; this couldn't be happening. Not Arcade; not the man who'd just said he loved him.

 _You can't save them all. You can't save yourself. Love is not enough._

"I mean – I can't be with you. Not any more, not like this."

John stumbled backwards onto the bed, flopping down in a flutter of blankets. A pillow fell onto the floor and landed in the puddle of vodka there.

"What are you sayin'?" His voice cracked like a fuckin' teenager's, but he barely noticed. All he could focus on was the way Arcade looked, tall and strong and sad as he picked up his shoes from the chair. It only took him a moment to pull on his socks and boots, a moment while John sat there, trying to think of what to say or how. How could he stop this?

"I'm saying –" Arcade crossed the room to kneel before him, careful to avoid the puddle of vodka, the reek that rose from the floor under the bed. "I'm saying that you're an addict, John. I love you but –"

Arcade's hand in his hair, brushing it gently back from his face. Pale fingers in dark curls, and his eyes so sad and green behind his glasses. Each movement so slow, as if he'd taken a hit of Jet.

"I can quit."

The smile that Arcade gave him was small and tragic. "I don't think you can. Not because of me. It won't happen, it won't stick. The only way it works is if you do it for _you._ "

"But –"

Lips on his own; Arcade's thin, warm, dry lips. It was a kiss but it wasn't; there was no passion in it, no heat. It was to quiet him, or to say good-bye. He tried to lean into it, tried to wrap his arms around Arcade's shoulders, but the fabric of the man's shirt slipped between his fingers and then Arcade was standing over him again, calm and stern though his eyes seemed wetter than before.

"I love you," he tried again. Plaintive, small. Begging.

"I love you, too. But I can't be with someone who's going to kill themselves."

 _Love is not enough._

He reached out again but he was too slow; Arcade walked around the bed, boots quiet on the tile floor, and then there was the ding of the elevator and the rushing sound as it disappeared. John wanted to watch him go, but he couldn't seem to turn, couldn't seem to do anything more than sit there, broken and alone.

Well, fuck that. John McDonough might be a world-class fuckup, but if he was going to be, he was going to do it right.

"If love ain't enough, might as well go out with a bang," he muttered to himself, rooting around on the floor for his pants. Pants, boots, socks, shirt – unsteady as he was, it took almost no time for him to get dressed. His pack he found by the door, and he pulled it on, trying not to think about what he was doing.

Where he was going. What had just happened.

Thump-Thump he left on the table by the elevator, along with the grenades. It wasn't his, it was Honey's; whatever else he was, John was no thief.

He walked out into the Vegas night and turned right, out of the Strip and into Freeside.


	27. I've Got Heartaches By the Number

Way Back Home: I've Got Heartaches By The Number

Notes: On a personal note, this chapter marks 300k words that I've written since the beginning of November. 300k words – not including authors' notes. I had no idea I had so many stories in me. So I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who's been reading, commenting, reviewing, kudos-ing, etc. Y'all are the best and you totally keep me going. I'm on tumblr if y'all want to yell at me about Fallout things, vlalekat.

An explicit sexual scene has been removed from this to meet FFN's guidelines but is available on Ao3.

Recommended listening: Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata (Piano Sonata #14 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 27)

* * *

The Atomic Wrangler was hopping even at three in the morning. That was the nice thing about Vegas and even Freeside – no matter what time he ventured out, John was sure to find something to do, something to take his mind off whatever was going on.

Tonight he had plenty to try to forget.

"John!" James Garrett wiped some beer off the bar with a filthy rag as John settled himself on a stool. Behind him there was some girl singing on stage, just off-key enough that it felt an icepick in his ear; then again, maybe that was just the hangover, or the memory of Arcade walking out without another thought, another look.

 _I'm saying that you're an addict, John._

 _I'll show you a goddamn addict._

"How're they hangin', man?" James set a glass of whiskey down in front of him with a grin. John forced a smile on his face, though he couldn't be sure how genuine it really looked, and took a long sip from the glass. It was the good stuff this time, the high-end booze Honey had insisted they serve. Behind him, the chanteuse missed a particularly high note and the whole room seemed to wince together.

"Pretty good," he said, lifting the glass in a salute. No need to burden James with his problems, not when he was trying to forget them. _How do you interact with people? Ask how he is, numb-nuts._ "How's business?"

James gave a chuckle and poured a little more whiskey into John's glass. "Oh man, I can't even tell you how glad we are to have those new prostitutes in here. They're all doin' really sharp business, real sharp."

John nodded, mind already wandering. The caps in his pocket jingled and the whiskey in his glass went down smooth. James had chems he could buy, a room to rent. He could still turn this night around.

* * *

When Honey woke she was struck by the familiar sensation of timelessness. The problem with the presidential suite - as with most of the casinos on the Strip - was that there were no windows, no way to see the sun and have an idea of whether it was midday or midnight. Probably a great way for them to make money, she mused as she ran a hand through her hair, but a real problem when you had a schedule to keep.

Regardless, it was time to get moving. Vulpes left four days ago, the trip to Cottonwood Cove would likely take another two, which would give them one night to stay in the Legion camp before taking a boat upriver.

The time had come to fulfill her promise.

She was jittery inside; it reminded her of the time she drank three Nuka Quantums in an hour and spent the whole rest of the day trying to find a way to calm her nerves. Arcade and John were nowhere to be found in the presidential suite, but then again, that didn't surprise her, so she took the elevator to the penthouse.

There was a story in the empty bottles strewn across the floor of the bedroom, the Mentants tins and empty cigarette packs, the Jet inhalers so empty that they skittered like leaves when she walked through. The bed was nude but for a rumpled and rather filthy fitted sheet; the rest of the lines lay in a crumpled pile on the floor at the foot. The kitchen had been used; dishes had been washed and left out to dry. In the wastebasket was the shell of a deathclaw egg and the ends from some vegetables. There'd been an accident in there, and she knew from the spatter of blood on one of the cabinets.

Yes, there was a story here, but there was no one to tell it. Arcade and John were both gone, along with all their things. It took Honey a few minutes to be sure about that given all the chem paraphernalia lying around, but when she was sure most of the packaging was empty she knew John was gone too.

On her way out, she found Thump-Thump sitting on the coffee table by the elevator, along with a bag of grenades. She picked it up and took it back downstairs.

In the presidential suite someone had made coffee. Probably Veronica, given that she was the one who looked more vertical. Honey set Thump-Thump and its ammo on her bed.

"Either of you seen John or Arcade?" She called from her room. There was some grousing from Cass, and then a moment later the woman herself stood in the doorway, annoyed and clutching the side of her head.

"What? Who?"

"John and Arcade," Honey repeated, strapping Lucky to her thigh. The mess upstairs, both of them gone quietly in the night; it seemed pretty clear what had probably happened, and worry made her fingers clumsy. It took her four tries to get the gun holstered.

Cass shook her head. "No, I thought they were still upstairs."

"I saw Arcade leaving last night," Veronica said brightly, appearing over Cass's shoulder. At the cheerful tone of her voice Cass winced and clutched the side of her head with a dirty look at Veronica. Veronica, completely unphased, blew her a kiss and turned back to the kitchen.

Honey followed, pulling a pauldron over one shoulder. She fiddled with the clasp, though it was difficult to get a handle on it given its location on her back. "How late was that? Did he say where he was going?"

"Well, it was when I got up to go to the bathroom –" a giggle from behind her, and Honey turned to see Cass cover her mouth. "So maybe around three? Didn't say anything, just picked up a few things, loaded them on that cart, and took off."

"He had a hell of a time getting it into the elevator alone," Cass said, serious again. "Kept getting stuck. I've never heard him curse like that." Her fingers appeared on Honey's shoulder, dexterous and helpful, and then the pauldron was strapped securely to her.

"Was John with him?" Cass and Veronica looked at each other and then back at Honey and shook their heads. In time like that they reminded her of a car she'd found once, an old rusted-out Corvega with two dog toys on the dash, heads bobbing in the hot breeze.

This got more worrisome by the moment. John gone, Arcade gone, a mess upstairs, Arcade angry –

"I think something bad happened," she said, more to herself than the two of them, but worry creased the tired lines of Cass's face.

"I'll go with you," the caravaneer said, turning to go back to the bedroom, presumably to get dressed and get her gun.

Honey caught her hand. "No, why don't you two stay here in case they come back?" Another look shared between the two of them, something intimate and communicative. "I'm a grown woman and I doubt either of them has gone farther than Freeside," she said, letting Cass go and punching the button for the elevator. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Be safe," Veronica said, her eyebrows slightly raised in concern.

The elevator doors whooshed open and Honey stepped through them, hit the button for the lobby, and forced a confident smile on her face. Threw Veronica and Cass a wink. "I always am. You two take care, get some sleep."

The elevator doors closed slowly enough that she caught the giggle from Veronica and another of those shared glances, one that made her feel very much like a third wheel.

 _Good for them._

* * *

The smartest thing to do was start with Arcade, she figured, and so she turned right out of the Strip and headed down the main drag of Freeside, past the King's School of Impersonation, through the second gate, and to the Mormon Fort. If he'd taken his medical supplies, no doubt he'd gone there. Despite all the time he'd spent at the Lucky 38 lately, it was his home and he took his duties for the Followers seriously.

And sure enough, that hunch paid off; there he was, in the small white tent near the back, sitting at a desk and frowning at a book. He didn't look like himself, though; his normally sleek hair was rumpled and looked a bit dirty, and the dark bags under his eyes told her he'd been up even earlier than usual, probably without much sleep.

"Arcade?" Honey called softly from the door, and when he turned she saw the thing that worried her the most: the redness of his eyes, the way his mouth seemed turned down instead of in its usual sardonic half-smirk. He looked _broken._

"Honey, hi." His voice didn't waver, though – were those _tears_ in the corners of his eyes?

She didn't know what to do. Should she ask him? Should she –

Honey took another step forward into the tent and then her arms were around him as if they, at least, knew what to do to console him. He let her – Arcade, of all people, let her wrap her arms around him, He let out a heavy shudder and before she knew it, her the collar of her shirt was damp with tears. No, not damp – in a moment it was downright wet, and all Honey could do was wrap her arms around Arcade's shoulders and pat his back.

"Los pollitos dicen, los pollitos dicen pío, pío, pío." With each pio she landed a gentle pat between his shoulder blades as her Mamá always had, when she'd been sad or scared. It was so long since she'd heard the song or thought of it, and she knew there were words she could remember, but somehow it seemed vitally important to find some way to soothe him, so she sang on, even though her voice cracked. "Cuando tienen hambre, cuando tienen frío."

Honey took a deep breath and began the next part, the part that she was even less sure of. "La gallina busca el maíz y el trigo les da la comida y les presta abrigo." Her voice petered out; this was as far as she could remember; her mother patting her back and singing softly to her, her calloused brown hands warm on Honey's back.

She wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to her after Honey fled. She knew what was likely, but still – she hoped her Mamá was safe somewhere.

Or at least at peace.

Arcade stilled in her arms but didn't sit up. The heat of the day had really risen up; where they were pressed together she was damp with sweat and his tears but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he seemed to be calming, that she kept moving her hand softly over his back.

"What was that song?" His voice was muffled against her, and she smiled despite herself.

"Mi mama – she used to sing that to me when I was sad, or scared, or couldn't sleep." Arcade sat up, leaned back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His face was red, blotchy, his eyes still wet, but at least he looked a bit more like himself.

"What's it about?"

"Chickens," she said with a laugh, and this brought a real smile to Arcade's face as well. "That's part with the pio pio pio? That's the sound the baby chickens make."

The laugh he gave was short, humorless, brutal. In her chest she could feel her own heart breaking. She knew what must have happened, but still she had to ask.

"What happened?"

Arcade let out a deep, shuddering sigh. "It was the chems, Honey." His eyes met hers, deep and green and shattered. "I just couldn't – it's not that I don't love him, but –"

She nodded without even realizing what she was doing. She should have known, should have seen this coming but with so much going on, it had been easy to just be happy for her friend to have found someone he could love.

"He's going to kill himself if he keeps going like this, and I couldn't stand around and watch it happen."

Still she nodded, dizzy with the idea of it. Honey reached out, put one hand over Arcade's, stilled the twisting fingers in his lap. His fingers were cold but for once it wasn't soothing; the chill of his skin just crept up her arm and Honey fought a shiver.

"You're right," she said, softly, her voice alien to her own ears. Said out loud, it made perfect sense.

Before she could think about what she was doing, Honey stood. "I have to find him."

Arcade nodded, visibly miserable. "I don't know that you can help him." There was a moment where he turned his back, rifling through some supplies. "Here's a couple doses of Fixer. With a habit like his –" His eyes welled up again and he shook his head, swallowing visibly as if he could get rid of his fears and frustrations that way. "Probably these little doses won't do much to help him if he wants to quit, but –"

She took the syringes with a nod, stuffing them down inside her day pack.

"Thanks Arcade."

The doctor nodded. "Good luck, Honey."

* * *

The search for John stretched her thin. She started with what she thought was the most likely place: Gomorrah. But Joana didn't remember seeing him, nor did any of the bartenders, and none of the prostitutes. The receptionist looked through her system but there wasn't a room rented under McDonough, and so Honey returned to the Strip.

He hadn't been to the Ultra-Luxe, and she believed Marjorie these days. Swank at The Tops said he hadn't seen anyone fitting that description and then tried to convince her to come up for "just one" drink. She gave him a wink and said she'd think about it, then took off before he could get pushier. Down the road at Vault 21, Sarah said she hadn't seen anyone fitting John's description but did have a note for her from a Mr. Fox – "Such a dapper gentleman," Sarah said and it had taken everything Honey had not to snort a laugh in her face.

Outside it was night again; her head pounded and she should stop eat something or drink some water, but worry was her anxious companion, picking at the threads keeping her together.

 _Dios mío, what am I going to do if I can't find him?_

 _You'll always have me, pussycat._

 _You. You are worse that useless, you fucking pendejo. You're the whole reason I'm in this mess._

 _Least I'm not boring._

The note was still crumpled in her hand. The handwriting was flowery and archaic, more sophisticated than anything she'd seen elsewhere. When she opened it, it said simply:

 _Don't forget._

She snorted, tossing the paper into a wastebasket. As if she was going to forget to go murder the leader of a massive army attacking her home. Not exactly picking up milk at the store, she thought, then headed back down the main drag of the Strip and through Freeside.

But the Kings hadn't seen him – "Real sorry to hear 'bout your friend, Honey," the King told her, though the glower she got from Pacer said he didn't entirely agree – and all Old Ben could tell her was that John had walked through the gate and disappeared down the road.

He could be anywhere, and she was starting to feel a little frantic when she realized what she'd missed. It happened when she heard the blonde bimbo on a corner hollering at passersby: "Hungry? Thirsty? Horny? The Atomic Wrangler has you covered!"

Well, shit. Of course.

Her feet knew the way; she was down the side road and standing before the door of Freeside's only casino. The door handle was grimy and half-rusted but the door swung open easily enough, and then she was inside.

* * *

But he wasn't there. James said John had come in sometime between midnight and dawn the morning before, drunk some whiskey and bought some chems and then headed back to the casino area. He'd apparently bought a stack of chips with the last of his caps and been on quite the winning streak before he made a bad bet and lost everything but a couple chips. He'd gone back to playing single-chip rounds of roulette before he passed out at the table and one of the bouncers had removed him.

If looks could kill, Honey would have murdered James, the bouncer, and half the bar in moments.

"You sent him back out into Freeside when he was so fucked he fell asleep at the table?"

For the first time during his retelling of the day's events, Garrett had the grace to look uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, clearly ready to start explaining away the decision to throw out someone who was so high and drunk he couldn't stay awake let alone walk but Honey had had enough. She wrapped her hand around one of the shot glasses on the table, aimed, and flung it at Garrett. The bartender dodged and it missed him – barely – to smash against the wall behind him.

"Your better hope I find him," she said darkly.

Outside the casino she stood for a moment. To her left was the sound of the blonde girl, still hollering about how great the Atomic Wrangler was. To her right was an old drunk in the battered building the junkies liked to use, singing something about the end of the world. The voice was familiar, though through the slurred words it was hard to figure out why. It sounded like gravel, that voice, nearly as low and feral as a ghoul's, the consonants slamming into the vowels and overpowering them, and then she knew.

John lay on the floor of the junkie den, directly across from the door. His head canted to one side, and in one hand he held an inhaler of Jet; in the other, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey.

"Why do the birds go on singing?" He yowled, and the sound reminded her of the way a bait dog cried when the Legion hounds were set to it. "Why d'the stars glow above? Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when I lost your love."

She walked in, trying not to think about what trash her boots kicked out of the way, and leaned against the wall next to him, and sank to sit with her knee bumped companionably against his.

"Hey John." Her voice was casual, calm, as if she hadn't found him in one of the most dangerous parts of town so high he couldn't walk.

"Honey." He didn't sound happy to see her.

"What's going on?" As if she didn't know. He turned his head towards her and offered the bottle. She let him put it in her hand, wiped the spit from the rim, and took a small sip. Rotgut, the worst of what the Garretts had to offer. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and somehow she saw the cap in the mess on the floor. Capped it, stowed it away.

John didn't seem to notice.

"He left me, Honey." The words hung between them in the night air. Somewhere behind them in the ruins, she could hear a scream or a cackle and the sound of glass breaking. "He didn't even give me a chance to shape up, to dry out – he just _left_ me."

She reached one hand over to him, slow and cautious as you approach a snake, and laid it atop his hand. He slowly turned his hand over so they sat palm to palm, shoulders sagging together.

"I heard."

A heavy sigh, then a clattering sound as he dropped the small pink inhaler onto the rubble to his right. John's body shifted as he felt around in his pocket for his cigarettes. A moment later one was in his mouth, then there was the flare of the lighter and a coughing gasp. He spit it out and she could see his hand in the sliver of moonlight that made it through the ruined window. He'd put the wrong end in his mouth and tried to light the filter.

"Fuck," he said, tossing it aside.

The process was repeated, and then he took a deep drag from the cigarette he'd managed to light correctly.

"I've really fucked up, haven't I?" The words made something inside Honey twist, something deep and painful. She didn't know what to say and the silence stretched between them as she squeezed his hand gently.

"Come on," she said finally, using the wall to brace herself to standing. Her head swam for a moment with the sudden motion, then righted itself. "Let's get to bed and look at things in the morning."

With a tug, she brought John up so he leaned heavily on her shoulder. His feet didn't want to cooperate; his weight on her shoulder dragged her so she could barely stand. One of his arms slung over her shoulder and she almost fell before she was able to get her other hand up enough to support him. There was no way they'd make it back to the Lucky 38 like this; she was dead on her feet and him – well, she was no doctor but it was clear he just lucky not to be dead.

No choice for it then, it'd have to be the Wrangler. No way this place would be safe soon; she could hear the pops in the ruins of Freeside getting closer and there was no way either of them could stand watch, tired as she was, strung out as John was.

With a groan she half-dragged him out the door, his feet half-scrabbling for purchase and half dragging behind them. He wasn't a big guy, but he was certainly heavy.

Back inside the Wrangler, James Garrett was visibly angry. "No, Honey – no way, get that putz out of here." She could feel the bouncer take a couple steps closer, could feel the bulk of the man as he got ready to escort them back out, and so she stood up as tall as she could with the collapsing man on her and the voice that came out surprised even her.

"The fuck you think you're doing, Garrett? After everything he's done for you?" A couple heads swiveled in her direction and she could feel the bouncer pause mid-step. Garrett's eyes flashed but she didn't stop, just raised her chin and with it, her voice. "You think I don't know all the things he's done for you? You want me to share with everyone else?"

"I don't think –" Garrett started but she cut him off again, gaining steam in her righteous anger.

"And what about me? I'm the one who got you that good deal with the Followers, in case you forgot." More heads turning to see what the commotion was, and she could feel a small smile work its way across John's face.

 _That's right, pussycat, don't let them dick you around. Good girl._

"So we're going to go up to the corner room and you're going to let me pay you tomorrow, you got that?"

Garrett considered for what felt like a year, the weight of John's body pressing down on her shoulder. Finally, he looked past them and nodded to the bouncer, who lifted John's weight from her and tossed the man over his shoulder like a sack of maize. She followed him up the stairs to the room they'd had on their last visit, trying to ignore the cackling and blown kisses John threw at Garrett as they went.

* * *

The first order of business had been getting the doses of Fixer Arcade had sent into John. She'd cleaned a patch of skin on his arm with the vodka in her bag and a scrap of clean felt, then injected the syringes one at a time. He was still a little conscious, head lolling and singing about the end of the world again. Then she'd had to get his boots and armor off, which was more difficult given how heavy his limbs had become, and there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be the bouncer, a big guy named Marco, with John's pack and shotgun. He'd found them stashed under the bar and after her performance downstairs figured she'd want them back.

"Thanks," she said softly, glancing behind her to half-asleep man on the bed.

"That was pretty impressive down there," the bouncer said, flashing her a smile. He had almost all his teeth; she was a little impressed. "You want to grab a drink?"

Honey sagged against the door frame. The day she'd had felt like a century and really all she wanted was a little Med-X for the pain in her head and some sleep. Still, she gave him the best smile she could, the one that said she was just so flattered.

Might as well let the big guy down gently, right?

"That's real sweet, but I think I need to get some sleep." Marco nodded, turned to go back downstairs, and she shut the door behind him.

"You could go bang 'im if you wanta," John called from the bed, then giggled. "Prob'ly more fun than hangin' out with ol' me, anyhow."

She flipped the lock on the doorknob – not much protection but, hey, every little bit helps – and turned back around. The bed was soft when she sunk down onto it, and pulling off her boots felt like heaven. The armor went next, along with her sweat-stiff pants. Her shirt she was too tired to cope with, so she crawled up the bed and into it.

"Not my type," she sighed, grateful to be lying down for the first time in hours.

"What is your type?" Maybe he meant for it to sound sexy, but with the high he was riding, she could barely understand him.

"Go to sleep, John."

"Mmm, night night."

* * *

In the morning, John was quiet. When she awoke he was sitting across the room, a cigarette in one hand and the most tragic look on his face. Honey sat up, stretching.

"You hungry?"

A shake of the head from him.

"I know you're sad, guapo, but you still have to eat."

John looked up from the patch of rug he'd been staring at and met her eyes. His were clear, no trace of the chems he'd been on the night before, and that gave Honey a quiet sense of satisfaction. Time helped, but Fixer was a good way to work through the worst of the withdrawal. With any luck, he'd be ready to start heading south later today and they'd be in Cottonwood Cove tomorrow night.

And after all, work was the best way to get over heartbreak, as she knew.

She shuffled to the end of the bed and pulled on her pants. Socks and boots came next, and she ran a hand through her hair. Best to collect her sack of caps, smooth things over with the Garretts by settling up. Like mercenaries, they'd forgive almost anything if there was a stack of caps in their grubby little hands.

"Fine." The tone of his voice was dead, almost lazy. It broke her heart again to hear it, but then again what choice did he have?

 _You always gotta keep movin'._

"I'll go get us something to eat," she said, walking over to him and dropping a kiss on his cheek. His eyes looked back up at her, and the despair she saw in them took her breath away. She turned to leave, but his hand wrapped around her wrist and she turned back.

"This Benny guy, the one who shot you?" She nodded. "You really love him, huh?"

Honey could feel the blush come up over her cheeks. "It's stupid."

"But?"

"But yeah, I do."

"Even after…?"

With a roll of her eyes and an embarrassed laugh, "Yeah, I guess so."

John nodded, face blank.

She stood there, one hand on the doorknob, hesitating. "Are you going to be okay here while I get some food? I'll be back soon."

A weak smile made its way over John's face, never quite settling into his eyes or his lips. "Yeah, go on."

Clearly it hadn't been him she'd made love to last night; he'd known that when he heard Benny's name come out of her mouth. It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did, not after everything else that happened, but what was that old phrase? The straw that broke the camel's back?

Well, John didn't know what a camel was, but he didn't need to; he could still understand how the poor dumb thing must have felt.

No, not one person he cared for wanted him around. Some of them downright hated him, no matter how hard he tried. There was Nicole, with her nasty note. Stealing chems and taking off after everything he'd done to get her out of the Commonwealth. Blackbird and her brother, who couldn't see him well enough to believe him.

And even when people didn't hate him, no one truly loved him – Arcade left him rather than let him try again. Honey fucked him and said another man's name. Not that he blamed her – she loved that asshole Benny, for some fucking reason.

She didn't love him.

He flipped open his pack and began rifling through it. A bottle of booze, some dirty clothes he'd meant to wash when he had time, a book of poetry he'd picked up north of Zion. Near the bottom, in the jumbled mess, he finally found what he was looking for, the old battered Mentats tin that no longer held any Mentats.

Even when he tried to do right, it never worked out. Myrtle Stanton and the smell of burned body fat that he could still smell, even months later and thousands of miles away. Nicole, dead against a wall in the outer ruins, her body wasted with disease and chems. The Followers in their outpost, roasted by laser fire and bleeding out – Doctor Alvarez's eyes black and the hint of skull at the top of her head. The Brotherhood soldiers he'd blasted so confidently.

So many ghouls lost to the Fens and the greater Commonwealth, and all because he couldn't move fast enough, couldn't find them safe places, couldn't stop his asshole brother from his fucked up genocidal crusade.

The bed called to him, so he walked over, still in just his underwear and a t-shirt that frayed along the hem. Flopped down on it and stretched out. Opened the tin and looked inside.

A thin syringe, wrapped in plastic, RadSafe! written on the side in faded green letters. A length of rubber tubing, which he wrapped around his bicep. He worked his hand into a fist until blue and green veins glowed.

 _Blissful euphoria._

 _An eighty-five percent chance of dying._

 _Fuck it, who cares?_

He slipped the plastic wrap off the syringe. The needle winked in the dim light of the room like a promise.

If only he'd been able to make it work with Arcade; if only he'd known how bad he was fucking up. If only –

He picked up the needle and stared at it. Was he really going to do this?

 _Well, shit, I can't keep doing what I am. And this has to be better than feeling…like this._

 _Let's go, then._

The needle slipped easily into one purple vein. Behind his eyes, he saw Arcade's face, those beloved lips pursed in disappointment, in disapproval. Green eyes behind thick glasses, narrowed brows.

 _John, what are you doing?_

 _This._

He pressed the plunger down.


	28. If You Break My Heart I'll Die

Way Back Home: If You Break My Heart I'll Die

Notes: In which we find absolution. Warning: This chapter gets extremely dark and there is some very disturbing, violent imagery, some of it of a sexualized nature.

* * *

Midday at the Atomic Wrangler was peculiar. There was a motley collection of drunks and chem addicts populating the tables and the bar. About half were stragglers from the night before; the others were starting their night early. Some settlers from Outer Vegas sat at one of the gaming tables in shabby finery, too broke to make it to the Strip but determined to blow hard-earned caps in games of chance anyway. By the stage sat a group of young guys – probably from out in the NCR, based on the way they talked – already drunk as shit and cracking each other up with lewd jokes. Nearby, with just a table between them, sat a couple of NCR troopers, both dour-faced and staring at the group uneasily.

Honey slid into a barstool and began counting out caps. Ten for the room, another five for hollering at James, ten more for breakfast –

"Heard you gave my brother some shit last night." Francine Garrett appeared in front of her as if rising up from the very floor and Honey startled, blinking at the woman. Francine set a cup of coffee down on the bar and nodded at it. "Looks like you could use this,"

The coffee was bitter, or maybe sour – sometimes she had a hard time with flavors these days – but it was hot and the caffeine sent a rush through her. She added a couple caps to the stack before her and pushed them to the barmaid.

"Thanks, Fran."

"Don't mention it. Everyone knows my brother's a greedy little perv, I'm just glad to hear someone finally laid into him." A flash of teeth in a feral grin. "You need breakfast?"

"Yes. On a tray, please, I'll be taking it upstairs."

Side-eye from Francine. "Yeah, that fella a'yours probably won't be looking too hot this morning after last night, huh?"

A blush crept up her cheeks, hot and slanderous. An easy mistake to make, and her reaction probably didn't help make her case. "He's not my 'fella.'"

"Yeah, _sure,_ " Francine said, hustling back to the kitchen to put in the breakfast order. Left alone at the bar, Honey took another blistering sip of her coffee, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. Behind her, the table of west coast guys let out a gale of laughter at something; probably it was good she didn't know what about. With a glance behind the bar – Fran was still in the kitchen – she leaned over and swiped a cigarette from the pack Francine had left sitting out.

Deep inhale, deep exhale, and another drink of coffee, and then she felt a bit more human again.

When Fran finally returned with covered dishes balanced precariously on a tray with a couple clean mugs and a fresh pot of coffee, she'd smoked that cigarette and swiped another one, tossing a few caps on the floor behind the bar as if they'd been forgotten to pay for them.

"Here you go, then." She took the tray and began the careful trek upstairs, dishes clattering with each step. The rattle of the ball on the roulette wheel, the quiet despair from the people at the gaming tables laughter from the guys near the stage – it all faded as she walked down the narrow balcony towards the door of her room. Opening the door with the tray in her hands was impossible, so Honey set it on the floor to turn the knob, then bent over to lift it again.

"Honey, I'm home," she called as she walked in, chuckling at her own joke. Where had she heard that? It was some old saying, that much she knew, but –

John lay on the bed, propped up on the pillows, eyes closed. Was he asleep?

No, something about the scene was _wrong,_ though she couldn't pick out what. She stood there, tray in hand, staring, and then it hit her.

He wasn't breathing.

The moment stretched as if it would break, the heavy tray weighing down her arms, and she waited for his chest to rise, then fall.

Her heart beat once. Twice. A third time.

He didn't move.

He didn't _move._

The tray fell to the floor; there was a distant smashing sound as mugs broke and dishes shattered, a wet gurgle of coffee spilling into the carpet. The smell of coffee hit her, and eggs and brahmin sausage, so strong she thought she might be sick.

Still, he didn't move.

She took a step forward, then another, so close now her knee bumped the foot of the bed. From this angle, she could see now bit of rubber tubing that had fallen from his arm to coil on the floor like a snake.

The needle still stuck in his arm, the way the metal bits on the syringe caught the light.

"Oh, shit, not another one." Honey turned, the action as sluggish and difficult as if she were underwater. Crowded in the doorway was Francine, the two NCR soldiers, a tall ghoul in a cowboy hat and a dominatrix outfit.

 _What do you do, pussycat?_

 _I don't know. Fuck – I just don't know._

There was a body jostling past her, a glimpse of a brown uniform, a bear insignia winking at her with two eyes. One of the NCR guys bent over the bed. He slipped the syringe out of John's arm, handed it to the other guy. When had he come around?

And still she stood there, feet rooted to the floor. Useless. Frozen. The tips of her fingers were even cold.

The first NCR guy was leaning close over John's chest, two fingers against his throat. The other turned to her, accusatory or maybe worried.

"What did he take?"

All she could do was blink, shake her head.

"Miss? What did he _take?_ "

Her mouth began to move, somehow. "I don't know."

The first guy was tapping John on the cheek, trying to get a response from him, but still he lay there, so still it made her stomach turn. The second guy looked past her and shouted to someone, "Go to the Mormon Fort, get one of the docs there – Julie or someone – and get them back here now. We got a guy with no heartbeat."

Footsteps traveling away, but she couldn't turn her head. The first NCR guy leaned over John, hands on his chest, and began pressing hard between his ribs.

"Do you have any stimpacks? Fixer, anything like that?"

 _He's talking to you, pussycat._

Somehow the second guy was in front of her now, her hands in his, and all she could see was his eyes, shiny and wide in his dark face.

"Look, miss, we want to help your friend. But in order to do that, we're going to need supplies and information." Behind him, the first guy had bent John's head back and was breathing into his mouth, intimate as a kiss. "'You don't know what he took?"

She shook her head again.

"How long ago did you last see him?"

Her mouth moved without her telling it to. "Twenty minutes? Maybe thirty?"

A nod from the soldier. "And do you have any stimpacks? Fixer, any other chems?"

Her pack. She had to get to her pack. She wrenched her hands from his and turned to the bag on the floor, riffling through it faster than she'd ever have thought possible. A handful of stimpacks and a dose of Psycho that Jack had given her back at the Khans' camp. The double-vial syringe was fat in her hand; she felt a twinge of embarrassment at handing it over but the soldier didn't bat any eye at it.

The first soldier was leaning over John again, pumping his hands hard into John's chest, arms straight and stiff, and there was a terrible cracking noise. The second soldier took the needles from her and pulled a flask from a pocket.

It all seemed to happen in snapshots: she saw him douse John's chest in liquor, the smell of it mingling with coffee and their ruined breakfast. The rubbing of a square of felt on his skin. The plunge of a stimpack, then another. A third. A fourth. The other soldier leaning back, gasping.

The second solider pumping John's chest with his hands as the first had.

Still, he didn't _breathe._

The soldier leaning over John's mouth and forcing air in, each breath loud as a scream.

"I don't know, man," the first soldier said, his breath ragged. "I don't think we can –"

"Try the Psycho." The words came from the second soldier in bursts.

"Are you sure –"

"I said do it."

It was hard for them to get the syringe in with the way the second soldier was pumping John's chest, but the after a moment, the first one lined up his shot and jabbed it in, just below the hands clasped over John's heart.

Inside her chest, Honey was sure her own heart had stopped too, and yet still she stood there and watched.

The two sat back, staring at their patient, and then there was a thin gasping sound as – finally - John took a breath.

* * *

He and Nicole bounced off each other, but this time John knew who she was. He recognized her wasted, haggard limbs and the two long tufts of hair on her head. He knew the knife thrust was coming at him, so he side-stepped and wrapped his arms around her. It was easy enough to pin her arms to her sides in a rough huge, to rest his head against the back of her neck until she stopped struggling.

 _I can still save her,_ he thought.

"John?" She sounded so lost, so scared. At her side, she still held the knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles had turned white. He didn't want to let her go, didn't trust her not to attack him. Inside his arms she shook like a bird.

"Yes, it's me."

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard you were here." She relaxed against him, and he let her go. Nicole stumbled from his arms as if drunk and turned to eye him shiftily, nervous as a cat. She took a couple steps back from him, but at least she was out of knife range.

"You did, huh? Why, d'you change your mind about fucking me?"

He tried not to snort at that. "I just wanted to see if you were okay. Doesn't look like you are."

She raised what was left of one eyebrow. So skinny, so fragile – but he'd seen all this before. He leaned against a concrete wall, graffiti under his shoulder, and fumbled a pack of cigarettes from his pack. Lit one with a bright flare and sucked in the smoke while he tried to think.

"Of course I'm okay," she said, relaxing a little. "I got a good thing going here. Cook-Cook says I'm a natural."

This again. Cook-Cook again. He knew how this story ended; it ended with him flinging her body against the wall so hard her skull shattered, with a scream and a wail and blood on the concrete.

Well, not this time.

"You hate me, don't you?" A look of surprise pushed out the suspicion on her face.

"I don't hate you." The knife hit the ground with a clatter. "But I don't want some fucking white knight to come save me."

He took another drag from his cigarette. Behind her, the sky filled with dark clouds. The edges of them were green; in the roll of the thunder he could smell salt and brine. There was the call of a gull, but what was a gull doing in the Mojave? He could hear the rain start to fall. Nicole turned to look at the clouds and he pushed up off the wall to stand beside her.

Her fingers reached out and took the cigarette from him; where they brushed his they felt like bone and ice.

"You need to get home, John."

"Not sure I can."

"There's other girls out there like me. There's dealers selling to kids, there's people getting murdered in their beds for looking at Vic or his boys wrong. I wasn't the first and I won't be the last."

He looked back at her, and this time she was gruesome. Her blackened skull grinned back at him, teeth like tombstones and eye sockets empty and ageless. Red and blue flowers adorned her forehead and chin; her cheeks were painted in thick strokes with red diamonds. The bottom of one dripped paint bright as blood down her cheek. One skeletal hand passed the cigarette back into his hand but all he could see was the smoke from her last drag seep through the hole where her nose had been.

"I think I'm dead."

Nicole tossed her head back in a laugh that was more a grimace.

"You're not that easy to kill."

* * *

Time seemed to pass unpredictably. In one moment she was watching the NCR soldiers try to revive John; the next she heard a quiet sigh at the door and when she lifted her head from her hands, Arcade stood there.

He paused a moment, glancing over to where she sat in the corner – and when exactly had she sat down? She would never know – and then continued to the bed. The two NCR soldiers – medics, she realized now, blearily – stood at attention. One of them handed Arcade a piece of plastic and the syringe they'd pulled from John's arm. The other was talking, though she couldn't hear anything over the roaring of pain and fear in her ears.

On the bed, John's chest moved shallowly with each breath, but it did at least move.

Arcade looked down at the trash in his hand, and she could see the way his mouth tightened. He nodded at the NCR guys and shook their hands, and the soldiers turned to leave. At some point the breakfast mess had been cleared away, but the dark stain on the rug still stank of coffee.

The pressure on the side of her head where the bullet lay was crushing her. Her stomach wanted to revolt but with nothing in it but a cup of coffee, there was nothing for it to send back up. A man appeared before her and she looked up, from his brown pants to his kind eyes. The medic, the one who'd spoken to her before. He knelt before her, and then the rushing sound in her ears turned off.

"I'm sorry about your friend." His voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. She couldn't speak, so she nodded. The motion made her head feel like it would topple off her neck, so she stopped.

As suddenly as he'd appeared before her, he was gone, and she was left to wonder if she'd imagined that moment of kindness.

* * *

The bank of the Charles looked dead from up the hill but as he got closer, John could see the plants that flourished in the wasteland – hubflowers, ferns. In the rocky soil at the water's edge bloodleaf had taken root, the red of the leaves drawing his eye. It was a warm day, sunny and clear, the clouds so white and fat they looked like pillows.

A beautiful day in the wasteland.

There was a buzzing sound to his right. A familiar, distressing flapping and a wet squelch.

 _This again._

He turned to his right and walked along the riverbank until he saw Martin, as he'd known he would. Eight years old, lean and tall for his age. Handsome in a conventional way. Blond hair flapping in the breeze, skinny arms covered in ichor and blood as he pulled out the insides of a dying bloodbug. The creature's proboscis lay on the ground at his brother's feet; blood puddled from the end of it, soaking the dirt and scrubgrass.

"What are you doing?" The shocked tone of his own voice, even though he knew, even though he'd seen this before. Maybe he couldn't change what had happened, but why did it still surprise him?

"I want to see how it works."

"But – it's still alive." _You're not five years old anymore, John. You can tell him to knock it the fuck off._

 _You can't change the past._

His brother looked up at him, and suddenly he wasn't eight anymore. No, he was grown man and the smile on his face was the ugly, vicious grin he'd worn the last time John saw him. Too big, with too many teeth. His brother's face looked like rubber, stiff and animatronic; something about it made him think of Nick Valentine and the way his expressions seemed to float above his skin.

The smell of blood, coppery and insidious, on the breeze.

"It's not like they're people, John." Still, that smile grew. It seemed to take up half his face now. John's skin prickled, each little hair on his arms standing at attention. "They're _ghouls._ "

The bloodbug was gone. Instead there lay Myrtle Staunton, her mint-green housedress soaked in black blood, her ruined face contorted in pain. She let out an agonizing cry that sent an electric shock down his spine. Martin's hands pulled a rope of something out of her abdomen – intestines, maybe – and set them aside.

"I'm just giving the voters what they want," his brother said and John couldn't help it; he turned and retched in the bushes. And then, just like always, he ran, Myrtle's screams chasing him.

* * *

"What did he take?" Her hand shook so hard the cup of coffee in it spilled over the side, turning her skin a bright pink though she couldn't feel it. Her entire body felt numb, still, cold from her head to her toes. For some reason she kept seeing the frosted mountains beyond Jacobstown when she closed her eyes, their white-capped tips reaching into an impossibly blue sky.

Arcade's mouth was a thin line, a dark gash across his face. His skin glowed in the dim room. They sat in two chairs – Francine had brought another up, at Arcade's insistence – facing the bed. John lay under a crisp blanket, a formless shape that seemed to suck all the air out of the room, despite the fact that his breath came so shallowly. Arcade had fixed a drip of Rad-Away to the bedframe and the thick liquid made its way slowly through a tube to the needle in John's arm.

A heavy sigh from the doctor, one so deep it sounded like he was trying to let out all the air he'd breathed in his whole life.

"It was something we picked up at the Nellis Research Hospital," he said finally. "Something with an eighty-five percent chance of death."

She couldn't look at Arcade, couldn't look at John. Her eyes focused instead on the dark stain in the carpet, the spot where the coffee had spilled when she'd come into the room and seen him…like that.

"He already died, though." The words caught in her throat. "He stopped breathing. So –"

"'I don't know. I don't know what to expect. We're in new territory here."

Was she nodding? She didn't know. Everything hurt.

"So you don't know what happens to him next?" Honey didn't need to lift the blanket to see what she'd seen the last time Arcade lifted the blanket to inspect his patient. Skin red and rough like he'd gotten a vicious sunburn, so bad that it was starting to peel off in places in long, angry strips. When she'd adjusted his head on the pillow, her hand had come away covered in dark hairs. The injection site was the worst, ulcerated and leaking pus. Arcade kept covering it with sterile pads but the yellow pus leaked through so fast it was hard to keep it clean.

There was only one thing that had this reaction: radiation sickness. She'd seen enough of it – they all had, in the Mojave – to recognize the early signs. Next the ulcers would spread, necrotic tissue tunneling under the good skin, bone and tendon and muscle exposed to the open air. If he was lucky, he'd die fast.

The soldiers who'd saved his life had given him nothing but borrowed time and the guarantee of a painful death. If she'd been the type to pray, she'd hope for him to never wake up, to drift in whatever place he found between life and whatever came after. At least she could pretend he felt no pain then; at least she could lay him to rest peacefully.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"What?" This made her look at Arcade, really look at him for the first time since he'd arrived. He looked so tired, so sad. His hair stood at odd angles, the skin under his eyes smudged and dark. Somewhere he'd acquired a dark splatter on his shirt, though whether it was blood or coffee or something else, she didn't want to know.

" _Food,_ Honey. You need to eat something."

"No."

"Yes. You're already in shock. If you don't eat you'll get sick. And you –"

"I know. I know, I have things I need to do."

Arcade nodded, wrapped one of his cool hands around hers. "Exactly."

Her eyes drifted back to the dark stain on the floor. "I don't want to."

"Just go back to the Lucky 38 for a little while. Take a bath, have something to eat. Get some sleep, maybe. Come back in the morning." A small, futile smile on his face. "I'll be here. If there's anything I can do for him, I will."

 _You need it, pussycat. You need to be sharp if you're going to do what you promised._

 _When you finally kill Caesar, tell him hello for me._ Joshua Graham's voice – her father's voice – came back to her, dark and full of promise.

 _Getting' awfully crowded in here, honey baby._

 _Fuck you, Benny._

With her other hand, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her head hurt – how long had it been since her last dose of Med-X? A day? Two? No, longer than that still; no wonder all her joints were screaming.

"Okay," she said, her voice a tiny and tentative thing.

Arcade gave her hand a final squeeze and she made her way out the door and back towards the Strip.

* * *

A hand on his leg, cool fingers walking up his thigh. A baritone laugh in his ear; hot breath against his neck. The tickle of stubble on the sensitive skin where his throat met his earlobe. White sheets, bright sunlight, shiny fair hair.

Arcade.

John let his name out with a sigh and felt a shifting in the bed. A caress on his hip, pulling him closer; Arcade's mouth on his own. Insistent kisses, the barest brush of a tongue on his lips. The rush of a warm, beloved body against his chest. He leaned into it, taking in the smell of cactus and mint and something antiseptic, a groan tearing out of him at the sensation of a hand on his dick.

"You like that, baby?"

John's eyes flew open. The dark eyes staring back at him were Vic's, glittering and hateful. His grin wasn't Arcade's sardonic smirk but broad and taunting. The grip on him tightened and he let out a gasp as the pain shot through his erection. His body jerked as Vic squeezed again, too hard.

The bed was gone, the brilliant morning sunlight, the Mojave below. All he could see were brick alleys, corners full of trash. Puddles and grime everywhere he looked, and his body streaked with dirt. Rain fell half-heartedly in that Commonwealth way, though he could hear from the roll of the thunder overhead that more was coming.

"Fuckin' nancy boys like you make me sick." Vic stuck his free hand under John's shoulder and hauled him to his feet, slamming him into the crumbling wall so hard pink dust came away on his naked shoulder. Without clothes or armor, without a weapon, with his dick in Vic's hand – he was fucked.

As if to drive the point home, Vic gave a tug so rough he let out a choking gasp. Spots swam behind his eyes.

Laughter behind the crime boss – the shadows came together to create the figures of Finn and Ogre, their ugly faces contorted in manic glee.

"Like kicking people when they're down, do you?" He fixed Vic with a glare.

"Fuckers like you? Hell yeah." His dick was going to fall off if Vic kept at it like that.

Time to get to work, then.

"Well I'm not down, you shithead." He wrapped his fingers around a brick that had come loose in the crumbling wall. His knuckles scraped; overhead there was a boom of thunder. He brought the brick around in a wide arc, picking up speed as it went, and slammed it as hard as he could between Vic's eyes.

Lightning flashed somewhere behind him, so loud he went deaf for a moment. The overexposed light made the blood where the brick had torn Vic's skin turn black. A bit of white skull gleamed through the ripped skin.

He looked past Vic as the man fell against the wall, but Finn and Ogre were gone. Vic's hand let go, and he felt like he could breathe again.

Vic turned his head to him, eyes wide and staring. Another flash of lightning, and this time John could see how the skin was falling from Vic's face in wide streamers. Angry red muscle lay underneath, and the warm white of bone.

"Fuck you –" Vic's tongue fell out of his mouth with a wet splat on the pavement. His nose followed, leaving an ugly gaping hole in the middle of his face.

"At least I'm still pretty."

John turned to head out of the alley, scratching aimlessly at a spot on his arm that burned despite the cool air of the Commonwealth.

* * *

He was waiting for her outside the Lucky 38, a man dressed like any other gambler but whose every move was a lesson in appearing casual, in looking like he belonged. The disguise was just a bit too good, so it was no surprise to Honey when Vulpes walked up to her.

"You stood me up."

It was too late for this, and she was too tired. "Something came up."

"Something 'came up'?" His eyes narrowed, thin slivers of blue peeking around the irises.

"Sí." Fuck, she was impatient. "I had an emergencia. You understand?"

His hand was on her arm, hard enough to hurt, though from the way he guided her into a dark corner probably none of the drunks passing by would notice.

"I understand that I went out on a limb for you." His voice was that silky calm that she knew meant danger; guys like Vulpes weren't inclined to lose control over their anger. That was when they were most dangerous.

Compared to the exhaustion she felt, the bruises forming under his fingers were nothing.

"I'm still coming." Even she could feel the exhaustion in her voice. "I'll be there as soon as I can, but –"

"You'll come out in the next week or I'll tell Caesar you were plotting his assassination." A squeeze on her bicep, so violent she let out a gasp of pain, or surprise. She tried to get her brain in gear, but everything came up blank, a slot machine with no winner. "And we'll proceed with the execution of the spy Benny."

Nothing about that was funny, but Honey laughed all the same. Benny, a spy – as if he were sneaky enough to earn that name. The giggles rose up from deep inside her, thoughtless and light as bubbles.

"I'll be there," she said, when she'd caught her breath again.

"See that you are." He let her go and disappeared through the gates, the bowler hat on his head blending in with the others, distinctive only in that it went out the gate instead of in. Honey brought her opposite hand up to her arm and rubbed the bruised skin there, and wondered what her next move was.

* * *

"I had the most _amazing_ dreams."

The images were fading already, the memories of his brother, of Nicole and Vic. Radstorms in the desert and rain in the alley behind the Old Statehouse. The Charles River glittering in the sun.

A rustle came from across the room, like fabric and paper. He wanted to sit up, but _fuck,_ his arm hurt. Trying to put any weight on it was too painful, so he lay back down and looked up at the ceiling. White plaster discolored with age, a large crack running through it. Well, that certainly didn't help narrow down where the hell he was.

Arcade's face appeared in his line of sight, his expression neutral. It took him a moment to figure out why that made him sad, and then he remembered.

 _I can't be with someone who's going to kill themselves._

"I didn't think you were going to wake up."

A hand on his back and another on his shoulder, cool and strong, helped him to sitting. His head swam with the motion; then as Arcade slipped another pillow behind his back, his vision cleared.

"What a _trip._ " His chest felt tight, constricted, and his breath was shallow. His voice didn't sound like his own; it was deeper, almost gravelly. He tried clearing his throat to see if it sounded better. Blinked and found he was almost too tired to open his eyes again.

It looked like they were in the Atomic Wrangler. A chair sat next to the bed, and Arcade pulled a small black doctor's bag from it. He took a stethoscope and laid it against John's back, listening to his heart. There was a burnt smell in the air, like old coffee; from under the door he could hear the sounds of slot machines whirring and gamblers laughing.

Apparently satisfied, Arcade leaned back in his seat. "Well, you're awake. I guess that means you'll probably live."

"What do you mean?"

Arcade quirked one eyebrow up. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He tried to think, but everything was hazy. Laughing at a roulette wheel with a glass of whiskey in his hand bled into Nicole's grinning sightless skull, one red diamond on her cheek bleeding towards her chin. Stumbling in the Freeside night, dizzy and angry and singing. Martin's grin, too broad and full of teeth as he looked out over Diamond City, the Charles gleaming impossibly behind him. The rumble of thunder and Honey's hand in his own. The steel gleam of a syringe in his hand, plastic wrapper falling to the floor.

He didn't want to speak; a chill settled over him, fighting against the heat inside his skin. Suddenly there was a pull in the blanket that was safer to look at than Arcade's eyes.

"I got high."

"Yes."

"I took the RadSafe! from the hospital up by Nellis."

"Looks like it." Arcade's voice was tight, terse.

John sighed and leaned his head back against the bed frame. There was a spot on his arm that itched almost unbearably, but getting his other hand to it was just too much work. He might have just woken up, but he felt like he could sleep for a year.

"How long was I out?"

"Five days."

"What happened to Honey?"

He could hear Arcade exhale; the heat of his breath brushed John's hand. "I sent her home. She needed some rest."

It was too much work to nod. Part of him wanted to cry, but it felt like all the moisture inside him had dried up. Everywhere he seemed to itch; his skin was on fire. The pit of his stomach felt like it wanted to revolt; his head was so heavy and pulsing and he wondered if this was how Honey felt all the time. He wanted to ask Arcade for something for the pain, but maybe it'd be better if he didn't. Not after what landed him here.

Still, the thought of a little Med-X to take the edge off was tempting.

"So, what's the prognosis, doc?"

Arcade gave a short, bitter laugh. "I don't know if you want to hear it."

That didn't sound good. His eyes traced the line of the crack in the ceiling.

"Gonna have to hear it sooner or later."

He couldn't see Arcade's face, but there was something in the silence that chilled him. Finally, when he thought he was going to break: "You died."

"But I came back."

"I'm not sure for how long."

He wasn't sure why – maybe because of the way his body wanted to heave and hurl, or maybe because of the parched texture of his lips – but this didn't surprise him.

"Ah."

"Yes, um. The thing is –"

"You know, you don't have to do this right now, you know, if you don't want to." Maybe it'd be better not to know, after all. Maybe he could have a little longer to drift, to be free from the fear of what might happen to him.

It occurred to him, all at once, that he didn't want to die.

Arcade sighed again. "I think I do." He cleared his throat. "You're – I don't know exactly what's happening. I can make an educated guess about it, though."

"And that is?" If whatever was happening to him was real, he wished Arcade would just spit it the fuck out.

"I think you have Advanced Radiation Sickness."

The itch in his arm, the tingle in his veins. The burning feeling through his body. The rasp in his voice, and the friable feeling of his throat.

"You think I'm going ghoul?"

"That's not the question. You certainly are, it's already started. If you look at your arm –" John did. His arm was angry, inflamed and raw where skin had sloughed off. There was the curve of a muscle along the top of his forearm, the taut angle created by a tendon in his elbow. At the crook of his arm was the line of the Rad-Away flowing into his body, dark and viscous in its tube. The flesh around the needle was black and yellow, necrotic and festering.

Attractive.

He leaned back and asked the ceiling, "How long before I go feral?"

"Not sure." "I've never seen anything like this before. I was hoping we could use the Rad-Away to fight it, but I've never seen anyone go through the early stages so fast."

John scrunched his shoulders, slumping a bit in his seat, and looked over at Arcade. The doctor looked calm, even clinical.

"I'm sorry."

There was a flare of something on his face, and then Arcade blew. The façade of calm disappeared, his face turned red. He stood, towering over the bed, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"You should be, you fucking _idiot._ I can't believe you would do something reckless, so stupid, especially after –"

"You're right." That seemed to take the air out of Arcade's sails. He sank back into his chair slowly, eyes narrow with suspicion. "I've been selfish. This whole thing," with great effort he lifted his free hand and gestured to himself, to the room, to Arcade. "Selfish." The breath he took was painful; his lungs felt full, or perhaps too small.

"For what it's worth, I mean it. I'm sorry."

In the quiet between them, there was a cheer that went up downstairs. Sounded like someone had just won big.

"Thank you." Arcade got up and walked to the door, the carpet quieting the sound of his footsteps. When he turned back and met John's eyes, there was a feeling in his chest like a window shattering. "I need to go for a walk, clear my head. I'll be back soon. Why –" John watched him swallow. "Why don't you try to get some rest?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just walked out the door with little more than a look back. John watched him go and found he'd never felt more alone.


	29. He Might Have Went On Livin'

Way Back Home: He Might Have Went on Livin'

Notes: There is some very gory stuff in this chapter. What can I say? Going ghoul ain't pretty.

* * *

Thump-Thump hung heavy on Honey's back, swinging with each step she took back towards the Atomic Wrangler. Three days with Cass and Veronica had been a small-scale nightmare between all the questions they had about John. Would he recover? Would he go feral? When could they go visit him? Was she really going to the Fort? Should one or both of them go with her? When would she leave? She wasn't seriously thinking of going _alone,_ was she? What, was she stupid or just fucking crazy?

I don't know, she'd said. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Over and over until she thought her head would split.

When Cass had gone to start washing the dinner dishes and Veronica to change her clothes, she'd grabbed her pack and Thump-Thump from the hall and slipped out. If she moved fast, she could get out before they realized she was gone. She couldn't put off her meeting with Caesar any longer or she'd miss her chance.

That was not an option.

It took her only a moment to find Arcade inside the Wrangler; he wasn't in the room but rather sitting at a table in the bar, shoulders slumped and white coat grungy. She'd never seen him look so rough, with wan skin and greasy hair. Her heart broke a little to see it.

If only that ghoul had brought anyone else – Julie, or Emily, or any other doctor. But no, it'd had to be Arcade. The Mojave was just that cruel.

She sat down next to him and took a sip from the fingerprint-smudged glass on the table. Gin, earthy and piney and strong enough to make her gag. Arcade didn't seem to see her; he just kept staring at flaw in the wooden top of the table.

"You okay?" Dumb question, but she didn't know what else to say.

At the sound of her voice, Arcade jumped. "Honey," he said, too brightly, his eyes wild as he took her in. "When did you get here?"

She reached out and put one hand over his on the table. "I just got here. How are you?"

"I don't even know anymore." The sigh he let out was world-weary and vast. He lifted his glasses off and rubbed both eyes and his cheeks vigorously, as if he could wake himself up by the motion alone. After a moment, he slid his glasses back on and looked at her critically in the way that doctors always seemed to have. "How are _you?_ "

 _Terrible._ "I'm okay."

"You're a terrible liar." He let out a laugh like a snort. "At least about how you're feeling."

She shrugged and took another sip from his glass, trying to swallow the cloying liquor before the flavor of it made her sick.

"How's John?"

Another laugh, this one more manic. "Not good. I was right about one thing – he's definitely turning ghoul." Behind her the door swung open, letting in the reports of guns firing across Freeside for a moment before it closed again, cutting the sound off sharply. Music started and a girl in a glittering dress climbed onstage. Arcade, seeing her, groaned and stood abruptly. "Let's go back upstairs. We can talk more there. I…there might be something more I can do to help."

"John?"

The look he gave her was immeasurably sad. "No, not him. You. _Us._ "

* * *

The surprising thing, John was learning, was that going ghoul wasn't so bad. The first couple days had been pretty tiring and all he'd wanted to do was lie in bed and sleep. Eventually, Arcade pulled the needle pumping Rad-Away into him from his arm with a murmur about not being able to stop the inevitable, and then he'd started to feel pretty good.

 _Really_ good, actually.

Maybe it was because he hadn't taken any chems, or maybe it was a side-effect of the radiation coursing through his body, but he actually felt stronger than he'd felt in years. It was a little unnerving to watch his body change – the hair on his head seemed to have completely fallen off, along with alarmingly long strips of skin, and the area around the injection site was still oozing yellow pus – but as long as he didn't think about it too hard, it didn't seem so terrible.

As long as he didn't look in the mirror and see the weeping sore that was once his face.

As long as he didn't think about what might be coming.

As long as he didn't think of the way ferals would charge at you out of the dark, full of mindless rage –

The door opened, and he offered up a prayer to the god he wasn't sure existed – what kind of all-powerful guy could let the Great War happen, after all – for the distraction. Honey walked in first, her eyes going wide and mouth forming a small "o" of surprise when she saw him. Arcade followed, face distant and closed-off, as it had been since he'd woken up.

"Mornin'," he said with as casual a stretch as he could manage. Honey's skin was pale under her tan; it looked a bit like she might be sick.

 _Get used to it, John. This is the reality of life now, for however long it lasts. No one's ever gonna look at you the same way again._

"It's evening, actually," Arcade corrected him shortly, dragging the other chair over to sit by the bed.

Honey was warmer, despite the way she fought to keep her horror off her face. She sank into the closer chair, the one by the side of the bed, and – was this ever a miracle – took his hand, gently rubbing the area between his thumb and forefinger and somehow not wincing despite the raw, damp way he knew his flesh felt.

"You really shouldn't –" Arcade started, but Honey shushed him harshly, not taking her eyes off John's face, and didn't that make him feel a little warm inside? Arcade murmured something about the rads, but Honey's face said she didn't care; her eyes searched his own, concern furrowing her brow.

"How do you feel?"

He shrugged, gave her hand a squeeze back. "Not bad, actually."

Arcade frowned, a small and annoyed expression that did nothing to ruin his mood.

"Really?" Honey looked back at the doctor, eyes wide and hopeful. "Does that mean –"

"No." Arcade cut her off before she could finish the question. "No, he's too far gone. Whatever – whatever time he has left will be like…this."

"Don't sound so torn up about it," he said, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile.

"Of course I'm torn up about it, you selfish little prick –"

"Didn't think it was so little when we –"

"Enough," Honey hissed, squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. "I know you hate each other now but we have things to do here!" Her eyes were overbright, the blue of them piercing under her dark lashes. One of her hands left John's to rub gently at her temple. "There's no _time_ for this."

He kept his eyes on Arcade as the man looked down at his own lap. Neither spoke, though he knew he wanted to. Wanted to tell him all the things he'd thought of as he drifted in the RadSafe! high, wanted to tell him that he still loved him, wanted to say that he was sorry, again and again and again until he was sure Arcade believed him.

"I don't hate you." Arcade's voice was level as he looked up and met John's eyes. "I just wish you had done things differently."

A fair enough point. Couldn't say he disagreed. "I don't hate you either. The opposite, in fact." Honey gave his hand a gentle squeeze, but it was the softening in Arcade's face that really made him feel a bit better.

"Me too." Were his eyes wet? John couldn't tell from here, but it sure looked like it. Then Arcade shook his head and was all business again, turning stiffly to Honey. "So you're headed to the Fort then?"

She let John's hand fall to the blanket and gave a nod. "Yes. I'll be leaving when we're done here."

"I should go with you." He would never get used to sounding like that, he thought as he listened to the new rasp in his voice.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Arcade sat up a bit straighter in his chair and for a moment John felt a flutter in his chest that made him think of how they'd felt together, just a week or so ago. Was he feeling protective?

"Why not?"

"You're not ready for travel yet. Who knows when you will be? And in the meantime, taking care of you will be a liability for Honey."

Okay, so Arcade _was_ feeling protective. Just not of him.

"I think I can decide what's a liability for me, thank you." Her voice cut sharply across the room and Arcade winced. She turned back to him, those luminous eyes looking right into him, as if she knew what lay beneath his skin. Which - considering how little of it he had left - she probably did. The thought brought a smile to his face. Best not to think too hard about why that was. "So, John. Do you think you're ready to go? I have to go now and if you're not ready, I – well, I understand."

Behind her, Arcade stood, slapping his palms against his thighs in obvious frustration.

"Can't hurt for me to try."

"The Legion's not going to let him in, you know." There was a hint of desperation laced through the annoyance in Arcade's voice. "They're not very fond of ghouls, in case you both forgot."

"I think we can work that out," Honey answered without turning to look at him, and tossed John a wink that made him feel warmer and safer than he'd felt since he woke up. The idea that he was going to get moving again made his feet itch in the good way, the way that said he was about to pound some sand – not the way they had, that told him he had a new pulsating ulcer on the underside of one foot.

"They have a thing about ghouls." Arcade sounded angry again, and when they both turned to look at the doctor it hit John exactly why.

Arcade meant it. He _did_ still love him.

"We'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it," Honey said quietly, her words hanging in the air between them. She cleared her throat. "So, Arcade. You mentioned on the stairs that there was something you wanted to talk about? Some help you can offer?"

The doctor went very still, then stood stiffly and straightened his jacket. Crossed the floor to sit back in his chair and rolled his head on his neck. John watched carefully, wanting more than anything to reach out and pat Arcade's shoulder. But he couldn't. He _shouldn't._

Finally, after tugging at his clothes and crossing and uncrossing his legs and jiggling his knee and wiping his brow, Arcade spoke. His voice cracked a little.

"What do you guys know about the Enclave?"

* * *

It was a relief to be on the road again. Watching the darkness that grew as they left the flashing neon behind, Honey hoped that not being seen in the night would be as big a benefit as it was a liability. Still, there was the memory of lakelurks splashing, of deathclaws stomping – she shook her head at the thought of the night that she'd found Camp Golf and picked up the pace.

She wanted to make it at least to the Grab 'n' Gulp before they had to rest for a few hours. The four-fingered bruise Vulpes had left on her arm might have faded, but his threat had not. It was a funny thought, really, that Caesar had put such a committed soldier so high in his army and that now this soldier was going to help kill him.

Well, that or they were both about to be executed. But somehow she didn't think so; whether they'd make it out alive was the real question.

Behind her she could hear John huffing – his breathing seemed more labored than it used to be – but she didn't dare slow down. They had too much desert to cross and too little time to do it.

"So, you sure you trust this guy? The Legion guy? Arcade told me about him, you know, before we –" John cleared his throat a couple times. "Anyway. So, is he on the level?"

Vulpes, trustworthy? The idea alone made her laugh. "Before this, I wouldn't have thought so." Her hand went to the heavy chain around her neck, to the crucifix that sat cold against her skin. "But it turns out he was sent by…a friend."

"This 'friend' happen to be that mysterious father a'yours, the one you're 'running an errand' for?"

A private smile flitted across her lips. Sitting in the sun of Zion Canyon, a stranger with her eyes next to her. Lucky hot in her hand; the thought that she might finally avenge her existence. The memory of her mamá's warm hands stopping her.

"Sí."

John made a hum of understanding. He sounded out of breath, so she slowed down rather than kill him.

 _It's awful sweeta you to rush to your death on my behalf, pussycat._

 _It's not about you._

 _What is it about then?_

"So, you really gonna kill him?" John's voice – the deep, raggedy one he had now – cut through the endless loop of conversation that seemed to constantly fill her head.

She turned to look at him. It was difficult to do it without gasping; the worst part was the dark and yellowed wound that used to be his nose. Inspecting it carefully – even in the forgiving darkness – somehow made her feel okay. Made her feel centered, even.

What in the world did that say about her?

"I have to," she said, adjusting the way the grenade launcher lay against her back. "It's the only way anyone around here's ever going to be safe again. The Legion –" blood on the sand, dogs tearing apart an arm or maybe a leg, the sound of the whip cracking. The images, the sensations were too strong; they made her head ache. She found she couldn't speak.

She swallowed and turned back to the desert around them, to the shadows that skittered from under rocky ledges and lurked like monsters in the gloom of night.

* * *

There were a couple hours of broken sleep, when John rocketed between deep rest and wakefulness, and then sometime after dawn he drifted awake to find Honey sitting by a fire, roasting meat on a stick and staring intently at the flames. When she looked at him, she turned pale and let out a strangled gasp.

"What is it?"

Her eyes were wide, though it was clear she was trying to get herself back under control. "It's just – uh, oh mierda, John. Your _nose._ "

He put one hand on his cheek and it made its way over the rough, half-scarred flesh of his face to the gaping hole where his nose used to be. The edges of the crater were wet and when he pulled his hand away he could see yellow pus gleaming on his fingers. His heart pounded so hard and for a moment he couldn't breathe; he closed his eyes. Tried to focus on his breathing, but the harsh rattle of air in his ruined lungs wasn't as calming as it used to be.

 _It's going to be okay, buddy. You've known lots of ghouls. This is just part of the process._

He could see Nicole's charred black skull again, smoke drifting from her nose hole. Neat trick. Looked like he'd get to try it now.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes again to see Honey still staring at him. She shifted, suddenly, to look back down at the meat cooking – burning, really – in the fire, and for a moment a twinge of annoyance picked at him.

"You were staring."

She nodded, still not looking at him. Something about the hunch of her shoulders, the hunted way she wouldn't look at him, made him sad, the irritation discarded as quickly as it had come over him.

 _No one's ever gonna fuck you again, pal. Not lookin' like that._

Daisy's sad face when he leaned in to kiss her. Beatrice telling him she was all boot knives and old leather, the sun highlighting the rough crevasses in her arms where her muscles worked. Kent Connolly's sad, childlike smile that made him wonder if the guy had ever been fucked, even before he went ghoul.

"I'm sorry," came Honey's voice from over the campfire. "'I didn't mean to –"

He tried to sigh, but the air whistled through the hole where his nose had been. When he looked down at where he'd been sleeping, there was a smear of rotten tissue – cartilage? Skin? – and blood on the folded blanket he'd used as a pillow. The sight of it made him gag and quickly he flipped it over.

"It's okay," he said finally. His voice sounded stronger than he felt. "I should probably bandage it up, though. Wouldn't want to scare all the monsters away with the…well, you know."

As jokes went, it was pretty lame, but Honey humored him with a small laugh. She looked back up at him, not wincing or gasping this time, and he felt a rush of gratitude at the level way she met his eyes.

"You don't have to do that for me." Again there was that feeling he had with her too often, that trying to cover up what he was really thinking was foolish. Somehow in the few months they'd known each other she'd come to know him too well. And the unflinching way she gazed at him told him it was the truth; she didn't care.

The way her eyes met his made him feel less alone. His heart calmed.

"Arcade said it'd probably be better to leave any new wounds uncovered as much as possible anyway," she continued, looking away again to check the meat. With a little sound of satisfaction she handed a stick to him, the end of it stuck with charred meat. "Sorry it's a bit burned."

They ate in silence, then began their slow walk to the south. The sun was bright and heavy at the same time, the light of it playing tricks with his eyes. Somewhere south of the 188, Honey pulled a spare pair of shades from her pack for him, and he slid them on, grateful for the way they took the edge off. He'd have thought without a hangover the sun wouldn't bother him so much, but still it did.

 _I guess my life is just one long hangover now. Gonna be livin' with the results of this for a helluva long time._

The sunset came as Mojave sunsets do, with glorious orange clouds to the west and stars winking like diamonds in the deep purple to the east. The black outlines of cacti against the vibrant sky and the sun dropping below the horizon so slowly he almost couldn't see it. The soles of his feet hurt and John was working himself up into a real pity party when Honey turned off the road and into the brush.

Down they went, then along a flat for a while, and that was when he realized where they were. In the intervening months, not much had changed about the sniper's nest above Cottonwood Cove. A small shack, a fire ring and pot, some sundry supplies.

What was different this time was the fire burning under the pot, sending the smell of tatos and meat into the air, and the Legion fucker with what looked like a dog's head atop his own. There was a prickle along his spine like a warning, and John stopped dead in his tracks. Honey must not have seen the Legion guy, because she kept walking; he reached out, put his hand on her elbow, and pulled her back to him. Pointed.

Her eyes followed his line of sight and she shrugged, continuing on. "That's him," she told him softly, and then it clicked. The Legion guy she was working with had come to wait for them. And he'd cooked dinner?

As they drew closer, the dog-headed asshole stood and began ladling soup into bowls. The smell of it made him want to cry; there was a spicy undercurrent to soup and the sound of thick chunks splashing into the bowls made his stomach rumble. He didn't know if he trusted Dog-Head, but he _did_ know he was getting hungry.

"Vulpes," Honey said, stepping closer to the fire. Dog-Head didn't look up, just set one bowl down and picked up the second.

"I had almost given up on you." The man's voice was a razor wrapped in silk; it cut and teased. John could feel his hackles rising, but he watched as Honey dropped her pack and Thump-Thump on the floor of the shelter and sat, taking the bowl Dog-Head had put carefully on one of the concrete blocks around the fire. "I see you brought someone with you."

Dog-Head – Vulpes – held a bowl out to him, and John closed the distance. It happened when he reached out one hand to take the bowl – Vulpes shifted away from him, eyes flashing, his mouth dropping open in horrified surprise. The bowl knocked into his hand, splashing soup over the raw sinew. The way the liquid slid between the cracks of his hand burned, and he yanked his hand back with a growl. There was a clatter as the bowl fell to the rocky ground, shattering and spilling into the dirt.

"What is this… _thing_ you've brought with you?" Vulpes turned to Honey, though John could see despite his stiff-backed revulsion that the man was keeping an eye on him. From this angle, John couldn't see his face but he could see the taut lines of the Legionary's shoulders under his uniform, the ramrod-straight posture that said he was ready to fight.

He wiped his hand on his pantleg and took a step forward to brush delicately against Vulpes's shoulder. Let his hand swipe along the exposed skin of Vulpes's elbow, the flesh there prickling at his touch. The man flinched as John shouldered past him, and he leaned in close to Vulpes's ear and let a low snarl out. "I'm your worst goddamn wet dream."

There was a choking laugh from Honey as she spit some soup back into her bowl. Watching her, with the smell of the food wafting across the fire, he felt his own stomach turn a somersault at the idea of eating.

"Stand down, John." Honey patted the floor next to her and offered him her bowl. He sauntered over, slowly as he could, putting a swing in his hips – and let Vulpes think about _that_ in the dead of night when he was alone with his hand, he fucking _dared_ him – and sat down next to her, their hips just touching. The soup, when he took the bowl from her and finally started greedily spooning it into his mouth – was hot and spicy and filling. Everything he'd eaten since he woke up in the Wrangler had tasted like cardboard. Finally, at last, he'd found something with real flavor. That alone was almost enough for him to let some shit slide.

 _Almost._

Over by the fire, Vulpes had collected himself and ladled out his own portion. He stood with his back to the fire, his outline glowing in the flickering light and face dark. Impossible to read. Finally, in that simpering voice: "Your pet ghoul will never be allowed into Fortification Hill."

"You know, 'he' is a person and his name is John. You don't need to speak about him like he's not here," Honey said, her voice even and measured.

He couldn't see Vulpes's eyes but he could see the minute turns the man's head made as he looked from Honey to John and back. Finally, the dog head turned back to John and, with overly-manufactured friendliness, he spoke. "John, then. The Legion will not allow you entrance to Fortification Hill. Not with your…condition."

"Why not?" He took another bite of stew, savoring the roll of spices on his tongue.

Vulpes shifted again, then sat uncomfortably on the cinderblocks stacked next to the fire pit. He didn't speak.

"It's because they execute ghouls, John," Honey finally said. He turned to look at her, at the strong line of her nose as she stared at Vulpes. Her eyes glittered where the fire reflected in them, blazing blue and red and gold. "They're said to lack the strength required of Legionaries."

Vulpes gave a small, cut nod. "The profligate is correct." He paused, as if thinking, and took a slurp of his soup. "You will have to stay here or risk execution."

"Honey, tell him." He turned to look at her, but her brilliant eyes tracked every one of Vulpes's moves, the fire in them gleaming. Something seemed to pass between the two of them, and then she turned back to him.

"He's right, John. They'll never let you in. It would risk the whole thing, trying to get you in there." Her eyes scanned his, serious and sure. "Besides, I need you here."

"Here?" He gestured at the scrubland around them. A splash of soup spattered over the rim of his bowl, soaking his hand again. "Please, tell me how my being _here_ is helpful."

The smile Vulpes gave Honey sent a fresh chill down his spine. It made him think of Martin; the Legionary's gaze lingered too long on the v of skin exposed by the open neck of her shirt. He took a bite of the stew and turned back to Honey, to the expression of certainty etched into her face. Her hand wrapped around his own, the one that held his spoon so anxiously, and he caught a huff of irritated air from over by the fire.

 _Good,_ he thought wildly. _Let him stare._

"I need you here for the slaves. When we make our move, we'll need someone to help them get to safety." Her voice was so soft in the still night that he almost couldn't hear it. "I want you to wait about two hours after we've left and then –" Her eyes burned into his, so bright and hot he could see them even when he blinked. She glanced at Vulpes, who was studiously pretending not to know what was happening.

"I want you to burn Cottonwood Cove to the fucking ground. Free the slaves and get them out of there, but I want every goddamn Legionary in the camp to be put down like a fucking dog."

John spared a look at Vulpes, who was inspecting his nails. Something about the order made him think of Gomorrah, of the look on Cachino's face when he'd pinned him to the floor. The rush of hot blood over his hands.

His smile, when he looked back at her, was more vicious than he would have expected. "I think I can do that."

* * *

Morning came too early; a long day of walking with only a few hours' rest sandwiched in the middle meant that Honey had dropped off easily after they ate, despite the pain in her head and her own misgivings about Vulpes. She hadn't missed the looks John have him. His presence alone was enough to make her feel safe.

Vulpes struck camp while she washed up and administered a dose of Med-X. The whole time she was moving around the camp, she could feel the weight of both men watching her, of John watching Vulpes. It was enough to crush her, or would be on any other day, but today she was ready. Inside her skin there was a thrumming, a pulse that repeated _today's the day, es el d_ _í_ _a, it's the end. The end, the end, the end._

It was not an unpleasant feeling.

 _Get me out of this, babydoll, and I'll take you out for a brahmin dinner like you've never seen before._

She took a cup of coffee from John, wrapping her hands greedily around the hot mug as if it would steady her roiling stomach. She wasn't hungry and was afraid to eat, but stuffed a piece of gecko jerky in her mouth all the same.

Too soon - or maybe not soon enough - she looked up to find Vulpes waiting expectantly at the edge of the camp. He looked every inch the Frumentarius, between the mirror of his sunglasses and the heavy dog's head helmet he wore. She stood, brushing her hands off on her pant legs, and turned to John.

His face had crusted over in the night. It looked itchy, even painful, but it cheered her to see some new scar tissue forming; maybe Arcade had been right and the worst of it was ending. And was it her, or had the pupils of his eyes changed? They seemed bigger somehow, bigger than they had any reason to be in the bright morning sunlight, though she hadn't seen him take any chems.

"You remember what I said?" He nodded but didn't speak; he pulled her into a rough hug, withered arms tight around her back. She brought her own arms up around him and tried not to think about the fact that this might be the last time she saw him.

"I'll take care of them." His voice was so low, so heavy, that the words rumbled through her chest. Something about them fed the flicker of hope in her heart.

"Thank you." She leaned back to fix him with a final smile. The one he gave her back made one of the scabs on his cheek crack, a clear fluid leaking from it. Somewhere behind her, she heard a gagging sound. Still, the smile was nice. Rakish. She reached up and tapped the brim of his cowboy hat.

"I'll see you after," he promised her. "Go on."

Her pack was light; she'd emptied it of everything but essentials. Stimpacks, Med-X, ammunition. A spare gun for Benny. She slung Thump-Thump's strap over her shoulder and started back towards the road with Vulpes, dust flying up with each step.

When she glanced back to the sniper's nest, John was out of sight. Something about not seeing him waiting there made her want to cry. Instead she turned to the Legionary next to her.

"So why are you doing this? I mean, what's in it for you?"

For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer. She shifted the strap of the grenade launcher and listened to the sound of their boots on the road.

"Caesar is sick," he said finally, his voice different. Was this actually painful for him? "There's something wrong with him beyond what our medicine can treat and it's led to some…errors in judgment that are at odds with our beliefs. Errors I cannot abide."

There was a hot flash of anger inside her when she thought of bodies on crosses, of a man on fire falling into a canyon. Girls being torn from their families and sent to a garrison bed. A slave, too weak to walk any longer, ripped apart by dogs. "He's been sick a fucking long time if you ask me."

Vulpes shrugged. "I suppose that depends on your frame of mind. Regardless, he is no longer fit to lead, and without a clear line of succession, Lanius is that next in line." Under his sunglasses, his mouth pulled into a small frown. "And that simply cannot happen."

"So that's why you're doing this. You want Caesar out of the way so you can throw over Lanius? _You_ want to be the new Caesar." He stopped dead in his tracks, and she could see the way his fists balled at his sides, white and full of rage. She turned, pausing in the road. Below them – too close, really, for this talk – she could hear the chatter at Cottonwood Cove.

"I most certainly do not." Seething, hissing. "I would never _presume_ – but the Legion cannot go on as we have. It is…unsustainable, without a strong figurehead."

That was when it dawned on her. "You don't plan to get out of this alive."

No reaction from Vulpes.

Perhaps she should have felt something other than a quiet sense of satisfaction, considering he had committed to helping her, but all Honey felt inside was a peacefulness. The memory of Nipton - the smell of burning flesh and coppery blood running through the street like a river – was seared into her too brightly. Vulpes helping her to assassinate Caesar wouldn't nearly be enough to make up for every atrocity he'd committed, but it certainly didn't hurt.

"What happens, after?"

He started walking again, not quickly. "If you are able to get out, plan to regroup. Lanius will surely take command and his first goal will be the Dam." She nodded, trying to catch up with him. His voice was quiet; he spoke quickly as they approached the camp. "He is a very capable warrior, and I doubt you will win against him. He has destroyed more skillful women than you without even trying." A small, sly smile made its way across his face. "Expect to be taken as a slave then. First Lanius will gouge out your eyes, then he will probably rape you until he tires of you, at which point I would expect the torture to begin. If you are lucky, he'll give you to the other men. Somehow, I doubt you will be."

Vulpes went stumbling as she smacked him hard in the back of the head, her elbow connecting sharply with the base of his skull. They both turned to look down at the Cove, checking if anyone had seen them. From the way the Legionaries below walked around, it didn't seem like it.

"That was not what I was asking," she hissed, elbow smarting from where she'd cuffed him.

"You asked what would happen," he replied, voice irritatingly even despite the cracking she'd given him. "Once Caesar is dead, Lanius will assume control. With him in command, it follows that he will attack the Dam. The NCR is spread too thin, they will not be able to hold it. And if you are there, he will take you as a prize and torture you for what you're about to do."

His skin was so white inside that helmet. She wondered what he'd look like with a broken nose. Those sunglasses would have a hell of a time staying up, that was for sure.

"Are you trying to talk me out of this?" _It won't work._

"Of course not." He sounded exasperated. "But you asked what would happen, and that is the most likely scenario."

"Fuck you."

"Oh yes, that's a very sound logical argument. Of course, you are correct."

She took a deep breath, blowing it back out. Looked back at the Cove. Fucker was probably right, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Still, she couldn't let these assholes overrun the Mojave.

With another deep breath – in and out, Honey, that's right – she turned and began walking back down the hill, adjusting Thump-Thump again on her shoulder. There was the sound of Vulpes's footsteps as he caught up with her.

"Even knowing what will likely happen to you, you're still going through with this?" She was sure she didn't imagine the thread of surprised awe in his voice. She nodded. Vulpes stepped up beside her, pulling his glasses off as they approached the perimeter guard.

"I may have misjudged you, Courier. Come, we have a boat to catch."


	30. Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

Way Back Home: Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

Notes: Sorry about the delay; real life has been kicking my ass ten ways to Sunday lately. But! We have a special guest POV character in this chapter. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The Colorado River snaked through the canyon, a brilliant deep blue against the striped walls of the canyon. Much as it had on her first trip to Caesar's war camp, she was amazed by the sheer beauty of the land around her. Did she appreciate it this much before that shot that scrambled her? Some of Mercedes's memories were clearer than others, but she didn't think so; the impressions left by the woman she'd been a year ago were that Mercedes was small-minded and something of a mercenary. She wouldn't have seen the way the sun glittered on the current; she would have bitched about the way the light hurt her eyes. The old her - before she was baptized in blood and sand - wouldn't have appreciated the striped layers of rock that created a path to the dam. She hadn't been able to see past the heat and dirt of the desert to the beauty of it, to the way the sun made the crags and dust glow at the end of the day, the shadows of cacti growing long before winking out completely.

 _A rain of blood will flood the desert and not purify it._

Where had she heard that? She couldn't remember. Even now, though, she could feel a glimmer of the panic that had risen in her when she'd first heard the words. Her heart hammered in her chest, pounding the same rhythm as the war drums up the hill to the east.

Thump-Thump hung heavy on her shoulder, the shoulder-rest sitting on the floor of the ferry. Ahead of her sat a Legionary she didn't know. Behind her sat Vulpes, his posture stiff and a look on his face like he'd smelled something distasteful.

Around a curve, the motor of the boat slowing down, and then she saw it. The prize, the trophy: Hoover Dam. It stretched up so high above them, white and gray stone curving at the mouth of the lake.

There wasn't any time to appreciate the view, though, because now they were getting too close to NCR territory. Too close to being fired on, and she didn't doubt that her orders from Hanlon would mean exactly nothing if she was in a Legion boat that got destroyed. They're just move on, find someone else or some worse tactic.

She couldn't let that happen. No rains of blood in the desert, not on her watch.

What she thought didn't matter either way because the Legionary steering brought the small boat to rest on the eastern bank of the river, pulling up to a primitive dock that jutted out into the river. Honey remembered this part from her last visit. First the boat ride, then the arduous hike inland from the river and away from the dam, and then they'd enter the outer reaches of the war camp before climbing to Fortification Hill.

And then the end could begin.

* * *

He never should have let her go off with that Legionary. No matter what she said about trusting the man who sent him – her father, he reminded himself, though even that sounded completely insane – it still seemed absolutely fuckin' crazy to let her go off into the camp with him. But she'd been right, and he remembered their attitude towards women. He could only imagine what they'd think of him with the lesions on his skin and most of his nose left at the Grab 'n' Gulp.

What he came up with – the brutal things they'd do to him – wasn't pretty.

So John sat at the sniper's nest with the pack of grenades next to his foot, and he waited. He sang through every song he knew under his breath, a couple of them twice, and told himself riddles he already knew the answers to.

He watched the sun make its merciless trek across the sky. He counted the minutes and, when he gauged he'd given them at least a half hour longer than the two hours Honey had asked for, he loaded the Fat Man she'd left him with. Eight mini-nukes. Eight chances to sow as much discord as possible before he'd have to go in with grenades and guns and his wits.

He took his time, loading the weapon carefully as she'd shown him. First there was the small bomb to put into place correctly, then there was a series of switches to flip. He checked and re-checked his work. He rolled the other mini-nukes into a pile next to his feet so that he could reload quickly. He propped the Fat Man up on the window-frame of the small structure that provided shelter and cover, and put his eye to the sight.

It took him a few minutes to get accustomed to the depth of the field he could see. A Legionary popped up in the viewfinder, a particularly-stupid looking guy with a dog. Awful tempting, but he should aim his first shot to do the most damage. He turned to the left a little, scanning the tents. A couple of assholes in Legion gear chatting and laughing as they pointed to the slave pen. Nope, too close to the people he was here to help. Through the small window of the scope, he could see about fifteen captures – that was that that shithead had called them – in the small fenced pen.

He tilted it to the right and this time he was rewarded. Just shy of a dozen Legionaries doing some sort of calisthenics, already dressed in their armor but without weapons. All of them paying attention to their own bodies and the exercises they were doing. All of them grouped together as if they were begging to be bombed.

The grin that flitted across his mouth was ugly; it felt like it would split his face in two. He could feel a bit of his bottom lip come loose. It flapped grotesquely in the breeze, but he didn't dare reach up and yank it off.

He flipped the first switch. Watched as the assholes moved into a slightly different formation.

Flipped the second switch.

Looked at their faces, or what he could see between the sunglasses and helmets most of them wore. In the third row, second from the left, he could see that fucker who called himself Canyon-Runner. The one who bought and sold slaves.

With cautious fingers, he flipped the third switch and heard the Fat Man humming against his shoulder. Canyon Runner laughed at something another Legionary said and switched spots with him. John tracked his movements carefully, realigning his aim. Waited until they paused again.

Breathed out to steady himself. Pulled the trigger.

* * *

"By order of Caesar, all visitors must disarm and relinquish all banned items." The gate guard, a young guy with a mohawk and a stiff expression, gave her a once-over with his eyes, his expression lingering on Thump-Thump. He wouldn't be able to see the knife stuck in her boot, or the fact that Lucky was taped to the inside of her chest piece. Honey made a great show of pulling the ratty trail carbine she'd brought just for this purpose out of her back holster and handed it to the guard, who put it in a crate. Next came the large but dull combat knife from her thigh, which went in the same place.

"The grenade launcher, too."

"That won't be necessary," Vulpes cut in, voice soft and commanding. Just listening to him made her skin crawl. "The grenade launcher is gift from the Courier to the mighty Caesar."

"A gift?" Doubt clouded the guard's expression. He looked from her to Vulpes and back again. Then back to Vulpes.

"An offering. A gesture of loyalty."

 _That's cute, pussycat. A gesture of loyalty? He's never gonna buy it, but that's real cute._

"Well…" The guard looked at her again, and Honey straightened her shoulders. Tried to look as if she belonged here instead of betraying her true purpose. Tried to pretend she would willingly give up Thump-Thump even though she knew they'd have to pry it from her bloody and broken fingers.

"Or would you prefer we have Lanius come down here and straighten this out?"

That seemed to have the desired effect. The guard paled under his tan and stepped aside. "Of course not, Frumentarius. I'm sorry to have questioned you."

 _Well, color me impressed. A sucker born every minute, huh, baby?_

The great wooden gate opened – slowly, the pulley operated by several slaves who grunted as they shifted the bar to one side – and together she walked in with Vulpes. Ahead of them were dozens of Legionaries dressed in armor, most of them running through combat drills. Watching them made Honey's veins turn to ice; all she could think of was watching the same drills more than twenty years ago. Down near Two-Sun they'd run the same routines.

When she turned her head to look back at the gates sliding closed, she realized Vulpes was watching her, a sly half-smile on his lips, eyes invisible behind his glasses. All she could see was her own reflection, two tiny Honeys in their own sunglasses looking back at her.

"Worried you made a mistake, Courier?" His voice was pitched low, the cadence almost sing-song. He stepped closer to her as they began to ascend the hill to Caesar's compound, his body pressed almost up against her own. She could smell the sweat on him, and the old leather, and the faintest hint of something metallic, like blood.

"No." Best to keep her responses brief. Best to keep her voice light and her chin up. Best not to let on how nervous he made her, standing so close and speaking so coolly.

"Worried you're walking back into a collar?" She stopped and turned, met his eyes over the rims of their sunglasses. For a moment, she saw again how blue his eyes were, as bright as her own.

In unison, as if they'd both realized they'd given away too much, they each pushed their sunglasses back up the bridge of their noses. Behind him she could see the edge of the dam, gleaming white in the sun.

With a voice as sharp as the blade smuggled in her boot, she spoke to him again. "No."

* * *

Benny had given up on seeing her again over a month ago. He'd thought long through the spring and summer of the last time he'd seen her. The way she'd paused by him, head tilted down, regarding him through her long lashes. Her expression had been one of curiosity, or maybe contempt. Boredom? He wasn't exactly a great thinker and over the last couple months he'd ascribed her every motivation he could think before settling on the idea that maybe those two shots to the head'd scrambled her up so hard she couldn't remember jack longer than a day or so. You heard about people like that.

Wasn't like he didn't have plenty of time to think, after all, what with the way he was cooling his jets. He spent all day in Caesar's tent, kneeling on the hard-packed dirt – which wasn't easy, you know, for a guy getting up in years – and at night he was trussed up with the brahmin. His face itched where his beard had long since grown in, and he was so dirty he'd stopped smelling himself. He knew _other_ people could smell him because of the looks they gave him, but then again, if this pack of yahoos wanted him to stop stinking they could get him a bath and they didn't seem to think that was necessary, so fuck 'em.

His days stretched long. Sometimes he dreamed about killing the whole bunch of dress-up dollies, slicing through them with a combat knife like in the old days, before Mr. House turned him into a trained lapdog. Other times he thought about what it'd be like when – _if_ – she came back. He'd like to think she'd find some way to get him out of this, but the truth was she'd probably have him crucified.

After what he did to her, he deserved it too, and no lie. Still, he liked himself a little better without all those holes in his extremities.

There'd been a lot of talk about her lately. Vulpes, the slick cat in the dog's head, had a lot to say about things she'd been doing. Sounded like she'd been busy – got the Omertas and the White Glove Society to back her, and the Khans too. Even made her way up to Nellis and dodged shrapnel long enough to make nice with the Boomers.

 _Color me impressed._ Mercedes had been such a sweet kitten – not a thought in her head – but it seemed whoever she was now was a whole different breed. Something tougher, sleeker; something that could breeze through his to-do list in record time. She'd even offed House while he was stuck here on his knees, feeling the dirt through the hole in his slacks.

Yeah, he'd had a lot to be proud of her for. Even though it stung that he was waiting around for rescue like a damn princess in an old folk tale; even though he was starting to think that rescue would never come.

So imagine how hard he flipped when she walked back into his life one day a little after lunch. Well, _he_ hadn't had lunch – the Legion wasn't big on feeding him and he'd had to punch a new hole in his belt to keep his pants up, but none of that mattered because she was _here_ – but it was that time. Early afternoon, the sun bearing down on her.

She looked like sex on a stick and she knew it. Even from here he could see how stacked she was under that armor, could see the long line of her neck where her hair fell over her shoulder. She was still a little bald on the near side, where twin scars rose pink and tan against her scalp. Even with the ridged scars rising up there, she looked – well, she looked beautiful.

But that was probably the multiple concussions talking. No way was he on the hook for any dame, not even this one.

Mercedes didn't even look at him as she approached Caesar. He'd spent so much time hoping she hadn't forgotten him, hoping she'd come back for him, it hadn't occurred to him that she might just ignore everything he'd asked her to do. He'd lived on hope: the hope that she'd do what he'd left unfinished, the hope that she'd come back for him, the hope that she'd still be devoted to him even after everything he'd done to her.

More the fool him, right?

She walked slowly, too close to dog-head for his taste. The two of them looked just a little too friendly to him, and for the first time he really wondered if she'd moved on completely. If today was the day he'd be executed for what he did to her. How she'd do it. Whether she'd smile when he took his last breath, or if inside she'd want to shed a tear.

Nice day to go, at least. There was even a bit of a breeze. And the idea of a baby like that crying over him almost made up for the fact that he was dead meat.

Mercedes and Vulpes walked until they got just inside the open area before Caesar's throne. They paused there and Vulpes stepped forward, his voice so low that Benny couldn't quite catch what he said. There was an expression of surprise on Caesar's face, and Benny waited for Honey to turn around and look at him.

But she never did.

Vulpes moved away from Caesar and towards him, but all Benny could see was _her._ Her hair, gleaming and dark as if it could project its own light, tumbled over the pauldron on her right shoulder. The luscious bloom of her lips under her sunglasses. The way her hips swung as she took two small steps forward. He hadn't felt anything like desire in months, but looking at the way she moved he could feel his dormant trouser-snake perk up.

There was some talk, only some of which he heard. The bit about Mr. House again, and something about the Brotherhood of Steel, though it sounded as though whatever that was had already been finished. It went on long enough that the little seed of doubt that had sprouted when she took so long to return was flourishing into a full decorative office plant before he heard the words "Kimball" and "assassinate." Didn't exactly take a genius to put that one together.

 _You really pack up your morals and go to work for these yahoos, pussycat?_

There was some sort of laughter, and then Benny became aware that Vulpes stood directly behind him. How long had he been there, _lurking,_ like some sort of nosebleed? He didn't have time to think about it, though, because he could hear Mercedes saying something about having a gift for him.

 _A gift? Boy has she turned into a wet rag._

This time when Caesar spoke, Benny _did_ hear him. That was probably the point, though; everyone in the tent turned to look at him then.

"That's all well and good, Courier, but before we handle any other business, we need to discuss Benny. Have you decided his fate?"

He wanted to say something about how that wasn't exactly necessary, he'd be happy to wait as long as she needed to make a decision, but Vulpes had a hand on his shoulder and was hauling him roughly to his feet. It was slow going, with his knees so stiff from kneeling, and he stumbled once, nearly crashing face-first into the dirt. His feet tingled after being out of commission for so long, and for a moment he thought he might drop, but finally he felt steady again.

"What were my options again?" Mercedes's voice was almost as he remembered; husky, feminine but low. Musical, a southern accent full of desert heat and prickly as a cactus flower. He couldn't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but he got the distinct impression she was not impressed by him.

But why did that bother him so much?

Caesar looked at her, but she never took her eyes off him.

"You can kill him right here if that's the only way to move forward," Caesar sounded tired. "Otherwise, there's crucifixion, and the ring. But it has to happen before we move on the dam."

He really wished he could see her eyes right now. She toyed with something gold that hung around her neck, the metal of it winking in and out between her fingers.

"Crucifixion has a nice ring to it." There was something serpentine in the way she looked at him, then turned back to Caesar. "Seems neater somehow. More appropriate."

 _Come on, pussycat, really?_

"On the other hand –" she turned back to him, head tilted slightly. "I like the idea of him being able to fight back." She reached one tan hand up to her face and tapped her lips thoughtfully with one finger. "Maybe the ring. Yes," she smiled. Had she ever been more beautiful than when she was deciding how to cash his check?

"Yes," she said again, turning her back on him now to face Caesar completely. "The ring is right."

"Argus," Caesar bellowed, and one of the nosebleeds stepped up. "Take this… _thing,_ " he gestured at Benny. "Down to the ring. Get him a machete."

"Mighty Caesar, I'll take him." This voice came from behind him. He'd heard this cat talk enough to know who it was. Vulpes, the guy in the dog head, the one who spoke like he was slathered up in honey and had dames with cans as big as melons hanging off him. "I want to watch the fight anyway."

Argus, confused and dumb as a dog, stood down. Timid like someone told him to sit and stay, Benny thought to himself, and the idea made him laugh.

There was the pressure of hands on the cuffs behind his back, and then the Frumentarius was pressing something into his hand. Something thin and flexible, curved at one end and one side ridged. A bobby pin?

He knew better than to look surprised, but weeks of crap food and bad sleep (and being held hostage, and waiting for death, and beatings by some of the more vicious Legionaries, and…well, the list could go on, but it was snoresville and he knew it all already), left him weak. His mouth dropped open for a moment but no one seemed to notice, not with Vulpes hustling him towards the door of the tent.

They were near the entrance when he finally wrestled the bobby pin into his right hand correctly and the other end into the lock. A quick twist and wriggle and he'd be able to scram. Didn't have to tell him twice, nope.

Still, it was tempting to stay. If he didn't get clued in he'd always wonder what happened here, and he'd always been stupid and curious enough to need to know the end of a story.

"You should go as well, Courier," Caesar said in that pompous way he had, the one that made Benny wish for a straight razor and ten minutes without the old man's bodyguards. "If you are going to fight, you'd best get down there."

"I just have one last piece of business, Caesar," she said. Hard c-sound, like 'kill,' or 'concept.' Something in her voice made his skin crawl deliciously, and was he imagining it or had Vulpes slowed down? With a twist and a quiet _pop,_ he was finally able to get one hand loose but he held it in place, the muscles screaming for relief.

He'd let them rest when he was dead or once he was able to beat feet; there'd be plenty of time for it then.

A heavy sigh. Benny peeked over his shoulder to see how tired the old man looked. Looked like he had ever since Benny'd gotten here: old, tired, and cranky. Kind of like someone's ancient grandpa, if that grandpa was a dickhead.

"What is it now?" Yeah, definitely tired and cranky. He didn't envy her whatever piece of business she thought she had with him.

Behind him, he finally worked his other hand free; the handcuffs were kept in place now only by the pressure of his wrists against his back. It hurt, with the narrow metal of the cuffs biting into the raw flesh where they'd been for days on end, but he could wriggle his fingers around. It was a real shocker to feel the cold metal of a gun pressed into his palm. From the feel of it, it was something more substantial than Maria, something that might actually help him stand a chance against these no-style kooks.

"The _gift_ I have for you." Vulpes had stopped now, and together he and Benny turned, slowly, to face the scene unfolding behind him. With his back against the wall of the tent, Benny was able to move his arms. He wanted to rub his wrists, to bring some sensation back, but between the gun in his hand and the attention it might draw, he didn't dare.

He didn't dare do that, but he did cock the gun behind his back. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, and it was hard not to flip his wig over it. It'd been too long since he'd had a good fight and he was spoiling for it, every hair on his body standing to attention.

"And that is?" Caesar sounded impatient.

She slid the strap on her shoulder and now Benny could see the grenade launcher under her arm. Propping it up so all he could see was the butt of it, he could hear her smile when she spoke. "This is Thump-Thump."

Was it just him, or was there a thread of irony in her voice?

"Doesn't look like much." Caesar's voice was still impatient. Benny felt a hot coil of anticipation in his belly. The old man hadn't figured it out yet. Even the guards stood languidly; he couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

 _Neat trick, pussycat._

"Oh!" Mercedes sounded so surprised. "But you see, it came from someone very important. They sent it as a message to the mighty Caesar." No, he definitely wasn't imagining the tone in her voice. He'd spent enough time with Mercedes now to know what she sounded like when she was being a smartass.

Caesar sighed. Benny watched with the beginning of a smirk as the old man's shoulders barely rose and fell. "Who is and what did they want to say?"

She didn't lower it, she just stood there, alone at the end of the tent and surrounded by Legionaries. Damn if she wasn't just the most, so brave and fearless. It just about killed him.

"My father. The Burned Man. He says hello."

There was the whistle of the grenade; in the flash that followed he could see the outline of Mercedes diving for cover, and then everything went bright and dark at once.

* * *

The first mini-nuke hit Canyon Runner square in the chest. It exploded when it hit, in a positively delightful spray of blood and body parts. John wanted to keep looking, but his top priority was not getting killed, so after just a moment to admire his handiwork, he set to turning the switches on the Fat Man off and reloading.

Hit the first switch. The second. The third.

Back in the scope, he could see chaos. From up here he couldn't hear the attendant screaming and panic, but from the way some of the Legionaries hopped and dragged themselves around, he could see how much damage the first nuke had made.

Where Canyon Runner had been stretching just a few moments ago, nothing remained but a black scorch mark and what looked like part of a foot. The ground looked stained and dark, greasy from body fat and saturated with blood.

And it was good.

Those assholes wouldn't trouble him for a little while yet, but there were more to worry about, off to the left. He swung the Fat Man around towards the tents and aimed off to the west, to the tent he'd determined housed their weapons. This time when he pulled the trigger he watched. A couple of Legionaries in silly feathered-looking hats dove for cover but were too late; the tent they stood in front of went up in a wicked explosion that cast one dark-skinned arm high into the sky.

He got into a routine now: turn of the switches in order, reload, flip them back on. Look through the scope and pick a target. Fire. Grin devilishly as he watched Legionaries get reduced to spare limbs and dark spots on the dirt. He did this three more times before he decided he was too far removed from the action and it was time to go in.

With a sigh, he scooped up a few grenades and slid them into his bag. His shotgun he held loosely in his hand; the combat knife hung at his belt.

 _Time to go._

He took his time walking down to Cottonwood Cove. No need to trip over his own feet, not when he doubted they'd be able to mount any sort of competent defense after the hell he'd unleashed on them.

His first stop when he got down the hill was to make a right to the first site of impact. There were a few Legionaries still screaming on the ground, most of them missing an arms, legs, or some combination of the two. John put the shotgun loosely into his left hand and drew the combat knife with his right. He walked from body to body, silencing them one by one by drawing the combat knife across their throats. Blood spilled, hot and sluggish, over his hand onto the ground.

Methodically, he made his way back towards the main camp, looking for any sort of real resistance, but it took a while before he found any. He was outside the main office building when four Legionaries came pounding down the stairs to meet him.

Four of them, and not even in power armor. What a fucking joke.

He slid the combat knife back into its sheath – dirty but who gave a shit right now – and pulled a grenade from his bag. When the first set of feet hit the ground he pulled the pin with his teeth, holding his hand over the clip. By the time the second pair hit dirt, he tossed it in a clean arc to land at the foot of the stairs.

The third pair never made it to the bottom, or at least, not as a pair. One leg blew off at the knee in an obscene shower of blood and gore and the Legionary that had been attached to it fell to the ground, grabbing at what was left of his leg and screaming. The fourth one hopped over the guy on the ground, landing inches from his wailing face, and pulled a machete.

The three of them came at him, and John backed away slowly, pulling out another grenade. They were prepared for this one and all three dodged in time, but the distraction was all he needed to pull his shotgun up into his hands and pump it. By the time two of them were on their feet, he'd fired one shot into the face of the slowest one.

It occurred to John that he was smiling.

His second shot went wide, or maybe the Legionary he'd aimed for – this one armed with a ripper that wailed in the midday quiet – dodged. Either way, he kept backing up as he fumbled out two more shotgun shells and slid them into place. By the time he was ready to fire again, the Legionary with the ripper had dodged behind a rusted-out old car to his right, so John aimed at the one on the left, the one with the machete.

This guy wasn't too hard to take down; he held his body open, machete to one side, and the two shells John fired into him hit home. One in the arm – a lucky hit – and the other in the top part of the thigh. That one left a trail of blood down his leg, and the guy went down and stayed down, shotgun wound gushing. Must've hit that artery, John thought as he took a step back and to the left.

The last Legionary waited, and John waited with him. The camp had gone quiet except for the sounds of the captures whimpering in the cage, poor wretches, and the steady flap-flap-flap of the bull flag that hung above the building. John sat down, his back against the incline behind him, and reloaded his shotgun. Leisurely pulled out his pack of smokes and lit one. Took a drag and blew the smoke into the sky. Behind the car, he could hear feet in the dirt and the Legionary start the ripped back up. He sat, quiet and still, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long for the guy to come back out, one head poking around the front end of the car. The head disappeared again and another minute passed. Then, with a wail, the Legionary launched himself from behind the car, ripper howling and held at the ready as he approached at top speed.

John felt he couldn't have had more time if he'd take a hit of Jet. He clamped the cigarette between his teeth and took the shotgun in both hands. Here came the Legionary, running slower than he probably thought he was with the weight of the chainsaw slowing him down. All John could hear was the chain slinging around the blade, the machine-gun cadence of the thing coming at him.

He pumped the shotgun and fired twice; the first shot hit the Legionary in the hand and the ripper went flying. The second went over the guy's head as he fell to the dirt. John took another drag off his cigarette and stood slowly, listening to the newly-exposed tendon in his left knee creak. He walked over slowly, puffing at he went, and kicked the Legionary in the face. Once, _hard,_ and didn't he love the crack his boot made when it broke the guy's nose?

The Legionary landed on his back, his face a bloody ruin only slightly less revolting than John's own, panting. His helmet flew off and disappeared under the car.

John inhaled the smoke one more time, then cast his cigarette butt to the dirt. With the bloody toe of his boot, he ground it out until just ash remained. The Legionary groaned in pain, and then his eyes grew wide at the sight of John leaning down over him.

"Looks like you got yourself into a spot of trouble here," he said mildly, putting a little more growl into his voice than it had even on its own. "Way I see it, there's two ways this can go. Option one is I kill you. Option two," he reached into his bag and pulled out the cigarettes again. A flip of his lighter in the sun, and then he was breathing in smoke again, blowing it back out into the Legionary's face. "Option two is I let you go and you fuck off into the desert and I never see or hear from you again."

The Legionary opened his mouth one, then closed it and opened it a second time. Looked like he was having trouble breathing, and no wonder with the blood dripping from his nose down his lip and into his mouth.

"Ave, true to Caesar," the man finally spat out.

How disappointing.

"Have it your way," John said, planting the cigarette back between his teeth and standing. The Legionary was trying to get up, scrabbling in the dirt. His fingernails were caked with blood and dust and he was moving too slow to stop the first blow when John clubbed him with the stock of the shotgun.

There were two more loud cracks as John destroyed what was left of his face, and then his feet stopped twitching.

* * *

Watching her in action, it was hard to believe this was the same tame little pussycat he'd once handcuffed to the bed and left for a couple hours to blow off some steam down on the casino floor. Mercedes – or whoever she was now - was vicious, each move economical and practiced. One hand held a pistol, the other a knife nearly as long as her arm. She fired two shots into the first Legionary to charge her, then ducked as another approached from the left. When that cat went flying past her, she whipped the knife around to catch him in the back of the neck, slicing a ribbon of skin off him.

 _She'd make a hell of a tribal._ The thought was dazed, impressed, aimless.

The moment the grenade had gone off, Vulpes had left him, darting into the fray with a ripper held high. Whatever the hell power she had over him, it sure looked like it had spread. To get a Legionary as devoted as Mr. Fox on her side, she had to have done something right.

Benny lingered at the door, trying to decide whether to stay or go. They had to know he'd take off the second he got free, right? The Ben-man took care of numero uno, it was his top-shelf rule, and she had always known that.

Hell, she had the bullet wounds to prove it.

 _I should burn rubber while I can._ He turned and opened the flap of the tent, fully intending to take off and hope for the best – whether he'd even get out of the camp was up in the air, but no one could stop that canary from flying – and stopped dead in his tracks as two Legionaries darted in. The cubes didn't seem to see him, just ran right past him. One had a machete, the other a spear, and in the fray at the end of the tent, he could see them approach Mercedes and Vulpes, weapons drawn.

Benny paused, dropped the tent flap with a heavy sigh, and took aim. It was easy enough to fire two shots into the cat with the spear; the guy stood perfectly still as he readied his weapon, like he was _trying_ to get shot in the back. Amateur.

The gun had a gnarly kick on it, slamming him back into the heavy canvas wall, knocking him off his feet. The first shot landed where he wanted it to, in the back of the guy's leg, but the second flew through the canvas ceiling, leaving a perfectly round hole behind.

 _Must be weaker than I thought, after all the weeks I been here._ His lip curled into a morbid approximation of a smile and Benny pulled himself tiredly up off the ground. Maybe he should have left while the getting was good, but he was no goof. If he set foot outside that tent alone, the Legion would swarm him and crucify him and all the work his pussycat had put into getting him free would be for nothing.

Benny turned back to see her going toe-to-toe with Lucius. That cat he knew, after all the hours they'd spent cozying up in the back tent, Lucius pounding on him till he sang. Lucius advanced on her, power fist raised and ready to slam into her face; Mercedes backed up slowly. Vulpes was no help; he stood over the body of one of the mongrels that had guarded the tent, kicking the unfortunate dog in the back while fending off another with the chainsaw in his hands.

"Your father was the Burned Man?" Lucius took another step towards her, dancing lightly from side to side, clearly angling for an opening. Mercedes was too clever for him by half, ducking back into the tent to the left. Benny moved forward slowly, on wobbly ankles, gun held out awkwardly.

"He _is_ the Burned Man," Mercedes said with a wry smile, head darting to one side to avoid a half-hearted punch from the power fist. Even from here, Benny could see it looked like Lucius was toying with her; he was too casual, like he thought this whole thing was funny. Benny didn't know whether to be worried or amused.

Something told him the kitten had claws.

"Here to avenge his murder?" An aggressive step closer, and Mercedes didn't look concerned enough.

"We're not what you'd call close," she said. Still not concerned enough, given how he was boxing her in. No, she didn't look worried at all, and that made him worried and what the hell was he thinking, worrying about some dame anyway? "Not like, to hear it, you and Caesar."

Benny was about to turn around and walk out the tent and out of her life forever when he heard the way she said that. Like there was more to the story, like she was going to lay a patch and tell more than anyone should know.

"Did it hurt?" She was moving towards him now, trying to trip him up, and Benny took another step closer to the two of them. Raised the gun.

"Did what hurt?" Lucius made a stupid move, striking too soon, and Mercedes ducked under his arm and behind him. Somewhere along the way she'd picked up a knife. Benny felt a smirk cross his lips.

 _Smart move, pussycat._

"Watching your lover get blown to pinche pieces," she cried, and before Lucius could do anything, the knife made a long, shallow slice along his bicep, just above the power fist. "Hey, maricon, you missed me." And her feet led her back from him.

Benny remembered the gun in his hand all at once. He looked at it in wonder – _where the hell did that come from?_ – and then back at her. Mercedes didn't seem to have noticed him, but she probably still knew he was there. He looked back at her and raised the pistol.

"Caesar was my leader, not –" Lucius charged at her, fist raised and ready for a blow that would probably kill her if it connected. Benny didn't think, but then again that was his nature, wasn't it? No, he didn't think, he just fired three shots in Lucius's head. He hadn't realized how close he was to the guy until Lucius fell at his feet, his head just inches from Benny's left foot. Benny stepped closer, kneeling over his tormentor, and watched the light go out of his eyes. Just to be safe, he emptied the last round into the dead man's forehead, right between the eyes.

When he looked back up, he could see Vulpes watching him. Mercedes had her back to him – was she looting the bodies of the dead? Maybe she really _was_ a tribal after all – and had pulled the strap of her grenade launcher back over her shoulder.

"We only have a few minutes before every Legionary in camp is here and ready to kill you both." Mercedes grunted a reply. "You need to get to the escape tunnel now or there's no way you'll ever get out of here with your skins."

That sounded good to him. "Just point the way, baby." Mercedes looked back up at him with a frown.

"What about you?" Her eyes flicked over Vulpes in a way he couldn't read, and then it didn't matter because she slipped her sunglasses back on.

The smile he gave her made Benny want to deck him. Would have, too, if they hadn't needed whatever escape tunnel the cat knew about. Still, he looked like he'd been eating canaries and Benny – well, he didn't dig it.

"I didn't know you cared, Courier."

"Hey now –"

"Stay out of this, profligate," said Vulpes.

Mercedes, at the same time with only a little delay, "Knock it off, Benny."

Both of them frowned at him, and he put his hands out in placating gesture. "What'd I say?"

But he was already old news; the two of them faced each other again, Mercedes frowning and Vulpes smiling that smile that made Benny want to pound on him.

"I owe you for this," she said, finally.

 _Never play all your cards like that,_ Benny wanted to say, but kept his mouth clamped shut.

"I know," Vulpes said with a quirk of his brow over his sunglasses. "Come on." Mercedes spared a glance over her shoulder at Benny – a distant look, one that told him how little she must think of him – and followed the asshole in the dog head. And Benny followed behind, limping with the effort, like a puppy.

Not on the hook indeed. Sure. And there was a bridge he could sell you, too.


	31. I Fell For Your Jivin'

Way Back Home: I Fell For Your Jivin'

* * *

The entrance to the escape tunnel turned out to be under the rug in Vulpes's tent. Getting there was the hard part; they had to duck under the canvas wall of Caesar's private tent and make their way around the back. This was difficult enough with the sandbags holding it down, but made worse by the sore muscles screaming in Benny's back, his thighs, even his feet. They made their way down a small path, over a rocky incline, and to the collection of tents at the rear of the camp.

Or at least, they tried. Benny followed Vulpes's confident back and Mercedes's sure feet with scrambling steps; more than once he had to catch himself with one hand as he slid down the embankment, pebbles skittering about nervously underfoot. Or maybe it was just _him_ that was nervous. On one particularly bad spill, he scraped open the palm on a sharp rock, the skin filthy and flapping and practically screaming at him.

It was a miracle that no one seemed to notice them, but the Legionaries were all running around the top of the hill to the entrance of the tent. It wouldn't be long before their little surprise would be discovered; the thought brought a grim smile to his face, and he was so busy looking behind him that he almost ran into the Frumentarius.

Perhaps it was the way he stopped short and almost ran into Vulpes that caught the attention of the Legionaries charging past them; maybe it was just that someone finally realized their captive was running amok with a gun in his hand. Either way, the cat skidded to a stop and turned to stare at him, and Benny was sure it wasn't his dashing looks that caught the guy's attention.

"You," the Legionary started. He didn't finish because Mercedes raised her small gun, pointed at the guy while he gaped at Benny, and fired. Shot went clean through his temple, a gruesome echo of what he'd tried to do to her, and the guy dropped like a hot potato.

"Thanks, baby," he tried, but she didn't so much as look at him. No, instead she rolled her eyes, looked past him, and extended her arm. Fired again, and as Benny turned there was the whistle of a machete to his right; he took a step to the left, turning as he went, and watched a Legionary fall. Guy just missed taking Benny's ear with him as he went, blood oozing from the bullet hole in his throat.

Damn. If that was his pussycat –

But this wasn't the time to think about when she'd become such a crack shot, because now there was a whole contingent bearing down on them. Mercedes held a combat knife in her left hand and her pistol in the right. Vulpes held a ripper in both hands, his face spotted with blood like freckles.

And Benny? Well, the thing he had was bigger than Maria but sure looked like a pea-shooter now that he had to think about facing half the Legion. Not to mention he was getting low on bullets.

Everything happened so fast. Mercedes' arm was around his shoulder and although he wanted to throw a quip at her, he let her force him back behind Vulpes instead. She shoved his wasted body hard until he fell against the canvas wall of a tent where he toppled - undignified and embarrassed - to his knees. It was a good thing none of the Chairmen were here, or he'd be outta the top spot before he could get back up again.

Probably was anyway, but no point dwelling on that right now.

There was the wail of the ripper, and a feral scream from her throat as a Legionary charged her. Out here, in the open, she was more fearsome than she'd been even in the tent and certainly more dangerous than she'd ever been before he killed her.

Actually, it was pretty hot. Inexplicably – and pretty damn inconveniently, for that matter – Benny could feel his body start to respond.

All the weeks and months that he'd tried not to dream of rescue, he'd never considered the idea that the second she got him out he'd want to jump her, and yet here he was, thinking about the way that trickle of sweat on her neck gleamed in the sun. The long line of her arm as she whipped her knife up and under a Legionary's chest armor, fileting him like a brahmin. The spatter of blood on her wrist, the small grunt of satisfaction she gave as she shoved the Legionary off her –

And then her hand was on his shoulder, shoving him again, forcing him back towards a tent. Vulpes stood tall, facing the coming red tide, and Mercedes turned back to him, eyes wide.

"You can't possibly mean to-"

"That's exactly what I plan to do," the Legionary spat over his shoulder, glaring at her. "Go now, or this sacrifice means nothing."

There was a look between them that made Benny want to reach over and throttle the guy. Something evocative and even poignant passed between them, and for a second it looked like they might even kiss. Envy, hot and furious, rose up in his chest and he was getting ready to say something – just what the hell had she been getting up to while he was being tortured? – but then Mercedes's strong hand was on his arm like a vise.

"Gracias – thank you," she said to Vulpes. Before he could process what was happening, she'd dragged him away, his feet tripping over each other as he tried to keep up. Then there was a tent, a rug, and a black tunnel underneath.

* * *

Freeing the captures was more work John had thought it would be. Turned out they all had collars on their necks that would activate when they left the cage. And the key to removing the collars?

Well, sounded like Canyon Runner, the fuckhead he'd blown up first, was the only one known to have one. Of course.

He found himself pretty fucking glad he'd already gone ghoul when he discovered that. Picking through the remains of the Legionaries he'd killed first wasn't exactly pleasant, but it would've been even less so if he'd spent the whole time worried about soaking up rads. The irony of his condition turned out to be that the more time he spent poking around in the disgusting mess left by the mini-nukes, the better he felt. By the time he found the key – covered in congealing body fat and laced with a strip of half-charred muscle, wrapped around the leg of another Legionary, judging by the skin tone – he didn't think he'd ever felt stronger or better.

Before he'd come down the hill, he'd been one big sore, his flesh weeping yellow pus from every boil. By the time he made his way back to the cage, he could see the cracks in the skin of his hands starting to heal over, brown rivulets of scar tissue tracing their way across his exposed muscle and bone.

Maybe he'd have to take a detour on the way home, he thought. Honey had mentioned Camp Searchlight was so hopelessly irradiated you couldn't even get close to it. If radiation helped heal him – well, it sounded promising, at any rate.

He either looked less horrifying or the captures had gotten used to the idea of being rescued by a ghoul, because when he got back to the cage, the captures seemed less afraid of him, too. The girl at the front, the one who'd screamed when he'd first walked up, let him take off her collar and didn't even wince.

The captures – settlers, or just regular folks now – walked with him as he began scavenging weapons, food, and other supplies for them. None of them seemed particularly hurt, and one family had come from pretty close by. It took some cajoling, but finally he convinced the rest of them to travel with him as far as Novac. Honey'd been sure the town would take in anyone who didn't have somewhere else to go.

Before long they'd set off, up the road to the west and then north on 95. He brought up the rear to watch for trouble, but it was a quiet walk. They reached Novac just as the sun was getting low in the sky.

He wanted to push on, to get to the Strip tonight, to find out what'd happened to her – but it wasn't a good idea. There was the matter of getting the people he'd rescued settled, and finding them all rooms at the old hotel, and then making sure everyone had enough to eat. By the time he felt he could leave, the moon was at its peak and John was so tired he was practically swaying.

All the rooms were full, but that was okay; there was a burn barrel in the yard and he had his bedroll. John laid it out, took three bites out of a box of Yum Yum Deviled Eggs he'd bought from Cliff, and was asleep immediately.

* * *

"Tunnel" was a bit generous for where they'd found themselves. The tunnel itself, the portion clearly dug out and supported by humans, only extended a few hundred feet before it turned into a massive cave structure. It was immeasurably dark; the only light came from Mercedes's Pip-Boy (and just where had she gotten that cherry piece of tech?). Benny couldn't see the walls of the room they found themselves in, but he could feel the yawning blackness beyond. He could hear the height of the ceiling in the way their footsteps echoed. The floor tilted down, bit by bit, and then he realized he was splashing. The water they walked through seeped through his shoes, and he couldn't hear anything but the sound of their own progress. Not smart.

He reached up and tugged at Mercedes's sleeve. She turned, vicious as a feral cat, and for a moment he thought she might bite him.

"What is it?"

He didn't know what to say, and wasn't that a trick? "We're making too much racket," he finally said, settling for part of what'd been bothering him. No point in asking why she'd saved him when it was clear she wasn't in the mood to chat.

She rolled her eyes; he could just catch the motion in the light of her Pip-Boy.

"Do you even know where we're going?"

"Of course not," she hissed back. "Do you?"

Well, that was a good point.

"Look, there's only one way we get out of this," she said, sighing a little. Quiet as she was speaking, her voice still echoed off the walls of the cavern around them, sing-song, teasing. "I'm going to keep pushing forward. You want to go back and get murdered by the Legion, be my guest."

Then she turned, started walking away. Didn't look back. The light on her Pip-Boy moved farther and farther. Against his better angels and hating himself for every anxious splash his feet made, Benny hurried after her.

"You should really slow down," he huffed when he'd caught up. "You don't know what you could be walking into. Anything could be down here."

She smirked at him, the light from the Pip-Boy lighting the underside of her face in sickly green. For the first time, Benny became aware of a spray of dried blood that went up her neck.

"You scared?" There was something reckless in her eyes. No, she wasn't his pussycat, not anymore.

"'Course not," he said with more confidence than he felt. He'd be loony-tunes not to be a little scared, really, down here in the dark. This close to Lake Mead there were probably lakelurks and who only knew what else creeping around. And him with something barely better than a bb gun.

Mercedes' eyes tracked his, and for a moment Benny felt naked, bare before her. It was the only excuse for what he did next.

He reached out with one grimy, scrawny hand, and grasped her tenderly by the chin, thumb and forefinger cupping her gently. Her eyes went wide though she didn't move, didn't tear away from him. In the dim light of her Pip-Boy, he could see the puckered ridges of the scar that made her right brow droop, could see the way it disappeared into the darkness on the shaved side of her head. "What happened to you?"

Something in her face changed. Mercedes pulled away, started walking again. "You know what happened."

But you couldn't blame it all on him, not with that look in her eye.

"Yeah, I shot you," he said as he followed, trying both to keep his voice low and speak loudly enough for her to hear him over the splashing of their feet on the cavern floor. "But something's happened since then. You've…changed."

He could just see her shoulders shrug as she kept on walking.

"I did what you asked," she said finally, her voice so low he wouldn't have heard it if it weren't for the echoes. "I found Yes Man. United the tribes."

His heart wanted to beat out of his chest at the thought of it. House gone, Caesar gone, the Three Families finally working together – it was everything he'd planned.

Everything he'd been too stupid or short-sighted to put together.

"What about the NCR?" Everyone knew those cats'd snap up anything they could get their paws on.

Splash, splash, splash. The water came up to his knees now. They were probably getting very close to the lake.

 _Good thing this suit's already tatters or this'd be pretty disappointing._

"I made a deal." Her voice echoed off the walls. Was it just him or was there a glow ahead of them?

The water was almost up to his waist now. It occurred to him that he could see a bit around them, even where the Pip-Boy's light didn't reach.

"What was the deal?" _Did you screw us over,_ he didn't ask.

"Caesar for Vegas."

It was definitely light now; the roof of the cavern above them was broken in places, and he could even see an opening at the far end of the cave. It was broad, and he could see daylight out there, could hear the lapping of the lake against the rock.

There was a lot to process. "And that thing about the Boomers? That true?"

Mercedes nodded, took a step further away from him. The water made a small eddy where her body had been a moment ago.

"The Khans too?"

She nodded again. Benny let out a low whistle; no doubt about it, the honey-baby had sure taken his to-do list and killed it. She turned her head – didn't look like she could stand to look at him, and could he blame her? – looked at the wall of the cave, eyes following the place where the ceiling met.

Shoot if she didn't look amazing, so strong and sexy. In one of those holos out of Reno, this was the point in the rescue where he'd take her in his arms, say something suave and sophisticated, and she'd melt. Then they'd bang on the floor of the cave, her screaming and wailing as she rode his trouser-snake into bliss.

He wasn't sure she'd go for it, but it was worth a try. He took a splashing step forward, then another, and planted one hand on her shoulder. Turned her by her arm – too slow in the water and why was she resisting? – so that when her face came into view he could lean in to kiss her.

What he wasn't expecting was the way her elbow came up, smacking him hard in the temple. Her other hand came up, grasping him by the back of the neck, and then he went face-first into the water. He wasn't ready for it, and the water went up his nose, panic tapping him on the shoulder. It took him a moment of floundering before he was able to regain his feet and then Benny stood up, water streaming off him to drip in rivulets back into the lake in which they stood.

It was bright enough here that he could see the smirk on her face when she looked at him. He could only imagine what he looked like – too skinny, beard filthy and matted, skin covered in dirt, suit ruined, hair un-styled. And now he was sopping wet, like a kitten someone had tried to drown in a well.

He was pathetic. If he had any jets, he'd end himself here, a quiet and ignominious end to a fruitless life.

But he didn't.

He didn't have the balls to take himself out. Didn't have the grease to get her to see him as a man again. So he followed her out of the cave, into the lake, and up onto the shore. He followed her like a goddamn puppy all the way to Camp Golf, and hated himself for it every soggy step of the way.

* * *

There was no describing the grim sense of satisfaction it gave her to see the way Hanlon looked at the smoke rising on the horizon. Just past the dam, at the top of the hill, there was a column of it. It glowed orange and grey against the deep blue of the sunset.

"You really did it, huh?" Hanlon offered her his cigarettes and she took one, trying not to look giddy. Inside, her heart was playing a tattoo against her ribs; outside she raised a single sardonic eyebrow as he lit her cigarette. She flopped back in her chair, cool as a cucumber and excited as a kid with a new toy.

"I really did."

"I suppose it'd be foolish to ask if you got any witnesses?"

What an asshole. She took a puff of her cigarette and blew the smoke sideways out her mouth so it billowed over the edge of the balcony. "You don't trust me?"

Hanlon gave a chuckle that was half-laugh, half-cough. He twisted open a flask and poured a few fingers of whiskey into a glass, motioning with a nod that she should take it.

"You know I have to cover my bases."

Honey picked up her glass, swirled the whiskey and then swallowed it down in one gulp. There was a twitch of one eyebrow that told her Hanlon was impressed. He poured a bit more in, then poured some for himself.

"Just so happens they had a hostage. He was in bad shape, so I left him with Sawbones when we got here."

It Hanlon wasn't thrilled with her for that, he kept it to himself.

"And this hostage, he'll confirm your story?"

She took a sip from the glass before her. "Every word."

* * *

The doc could've been more gentle, and the bigwig who came down to talk to him acted like he was doing Benny a favor, which pissed him off. He wasn't sick, he was barely hurt. All he really needed was a shower and some food and some rest. Some of which he got, eventually, when the bigwig was done with his endless stupid questions.

There wasn't any point in sticking around, after all. His place was back on the Strip, not in this little tent at an NCR camp in the middle of nowheresville. Nah, he had to keep moving.

Mercedes lay in the next bed. He waited until her breathing was slow and regular, then pulled on his damp shoes and collected the gun Vulpes had given him at the Fort. It might not have any style, but it fit well in his pocket and had served him well so far; seemed a shame to abandon it. From her bag, he pilfered a stimpack and a box of bullets. He was making his way to the flap when he saw the grenade launcher propped against the end of the bed.

He glanced back at her, but she was out like a light. The dame was snoring, for crying out loud. No way would she wake up and catch him if he reached out, slipped an arm through the strap – careful, _so_ careful – like so. Nope, she slept right through it, and slept through him grabbing the spare grenades out of her bag too.

There were an awful lot of nasties between here and the Strip, after all. It wouldn't do to get killed before he got home.

* * *

"Sure you don't want to stay another day or so?" Cliff Briscoe was a solid man. He didn't flinch when he looked John in the face, didn't so much as wince when John's fingers brushed his as he paid for the souvenirs he'd bought. Just took his caps with a smile and handed him the dinosaur.

He'd even let John go into the closet behind the counter to get his toy rocket. The radiation in the room would've been dangerous for anyone else, but inside he just felt a warm glow, one that matched the blue coming from the rockets themselves. After a moment in there, he didn't feel so itchy. Holding the rocket in his hand even made him feel good again. Made him feel whole, in a way.

"That's a nice offer, Cliff," he growled as a thank you, "But I got business up on the Strip I gotta deal with. Friends to see, you know."

Cliff nodded knowingly. "Got you a lady up there, huh?"

The thought made John laugh. Who the hell was going to want him now? For the first time in a month or so, he thought of Beatrix. _I'm all boot knives and old leather, friend, and a ghoul besides._

Maybe he'd have to look her up. At the very least, they were both ghouls now.

"Something like that," he told Cliff, stowing away the last of his purchases.

Outside the store was blinding, the sun reflecting off the sand, the exposed metal of the shack rooves and chain-link fence, the hot green hide of Dinky. Not even noon and it was already so hot you could fry an egg on the pavement.

John slid his cowboy hat back on his head and began the long, lonely walk back to the Lucky 38.

* * *

Honey didn't so much walk back the Lucky 38 as she stomped. The desert that had sought to kill her at every turn didn't fight her this time; the sun at her back was hot but not harsh where it hit her skin. The two troopers that Hanlon had insisted walk back with her – something about "protecting their asset" - kept the brutal pace she'd set in the hopes of intimidating them into backing off.

She wouldn't have been so fucking pissed if that rat Benny hadn't taken Thump-Thump when he slunk off into the night like the snake that he was. Snake? Rat? Whatever the fuck he was, he was going to get it next time she saw him. She should've known he was up to something – plotting or whatever – with as quiet and pitiful he'd been the whole day before. It wasn't like him to keep to himself; usually he was talking a blue streak, chattering on and on about whatever pinche bullshit he thought was worth the breath.

What the hell had she ever seen in him?

He'd probably fucked off back to The Tops. And fine, if he didn't want anything to do with her, that was his business. Their arrangement, such as it was, hadn't exactly been exclusive. Besides, she was sure that even with Caesar gone this wasn't the end of the Legion.

There'd still be plenty of work for her to do if she was going to keep the Mojave safe.

But why would she do that, anyway?

The thought made her stop dead in her tracks. One of the troopers almost ran into her and she gave him a dirty look. Started walking again, turning the thoughts around in her head until she was dizzy.

It was Benny that asked her to finish what he'd started. Dios above knew she'd done more than she planned, more than any sane woman would do for the man who tried to kill her. She'd outrun missiles to talk to the Boomers. She'd made peace with the Great Khans. She'd reprogrammed a securitron army; she'd killed the man who'd lived for over two centuries in a glass coffin. She'd taken down a cannibal, she'd slaughtered the Omertas. She'd assassinated Caesar.

Wasn't exactly like she'd sat around napping and sipping on tequila.

She glanced over her shoulder at the troopers. Supposedly they'd be going to the NCR Embassy after they got back to the Strip. Hanlon had asked her to meet with the ambassador when they got there, but maybe she'd done enough.

Benny wanted the Mojave free, maybe _he_ needed to do some fucking work for a change.

It'd serve him right, she thought mutinously as she turned back to the road before her. Broken overpasses dangled enormous chunks of concrete. Ruined houses the same color as the dirt blended in with the landscape until she was almost on top of them. She was so tired suddenly she could barely put one foot in front of the other. And her head ached, the pain on the side where she'd been shot so sharp she couldn't stand it.

Fuck him, she thought dazedly. Ahead of her there was the muted daylight neon of the Strip. The winking white lights of the Lucky 38, the place that had, improbably, become her home. She could go back there, take a bath, sleep.

"I'm done," she said, and then the world swam as she passed out.

* * *

"Hey hey, fella, welcome to The Tops Hotel and Casino! I'm going to have to ask you to hand over any weapons you might be carrying." Benny frowned, an expression probably lost in the thick scruff of filthy hair on his face. Lucky Louie wore a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes; either he didn't recognize Benny, or he was hoping he wasn't back to start trouble.

"It's me, Louie," he said after a moment, standing up a bit straighter. With all the desert dust in his jacket, the checks were nearly all the same color, but he'd like to think his boys'd still recognize him.

"I'm sorry, don't know that we've met before." Louie wasn't that good a liar; there was no recognition in his eyes. Funny how seven years out of the desert and now these boys were all so slick they didn't remember their boss.

Benny sighed, scratched the back of his neck. "Let me talk to Swank."

Doubt entered Louie's eyes. "I don't know –"

"We got a problem here?" Swank walked over and Benny nearly lost his marbles right then and there. The cat was wearing a new jacket, bronze sharkskin and only a little wear at the shoulder seam. Every inch of him looked like the pit boss, and there was a hot flare of anger that coursed through Benny, sparking in his fingers. He took a deep breath to keep from pulling his gun right then.

"This fella don't want to turn in his guns, boss," Louie turned to Swank. So did Benny.

"Now, buddy, we don't want any – oh holy shit," Swank dropped the glass of whiskey he was holding. The bottom of it broke off when it hit the polished floor. The rest of it shattered, splashing whiskey all over the men's feet. Louie jumped.

"I see you been keeping my seat hot," Benny said as Swank stared.

"Benny."

"Benny?" Louie gaped. "The boys'll –"

"Now, we don't need to go spreading this around," Swank said, turning back to Louie with a cautious smile. "Let's just see what he wants here. How's it going, Ben-man?"

Yep, Swank had certainly done more than keep things going in his absence. Looked like he'd flat-out taken over, the bullshit artist.

"Never been better," he bluffed, taking a step around the men. Swank hustled back in front of him and Benny allowed himself a small smile.

"Where you goin' there?" Swank patted him lightly on the shoulder. Benny looked up, locking eyes with his second. _Nothing like coming home to find out you've been stabbed in the back._

"To my suite. Figure I could use a shower and shave and then you can catch me up on what's been going on around here. You dig?"

Swank kept his gaze on Benny. Neither man blinked.

"You can go up to the suite, but I'm afraid you'll be reporting to me now." Swank's voice held a note of apology, but his eyes were steady. Firm. Benny wanted to laugh.

"Look, baby, I'm back now." Benny said, his tone firm. "And that means The Tops is mine."

A sigh from Swank, as if this whole thing was more difficult and painful than he'd anticipated. "You been gone an awful long time, pal, and someone had to keep the show going. We talked it out, and everyone decided since I was the number two, it made sense for me to take over. There's no need to make it queer now, is there?"

His hand on Benny's shoulder flexed lightly, a warning. He couldn't help the smirk that came across his face.

"You 'talked it out?'"

A nod from Swank, a mimicking nod from Louie.

"'How civilized."

"Well, you know –" That was all Swank got out before Benny clocked him. He put all the rage he'd been carrying around the last few months into that punch. The frustration at being tortured and kept captive. The thought that he'd die on a cross. The fact that Mercedes could barely look at him. The idea that his goddamn second-in-command would take his place before he took a bite outta the old dirt sandwich – it all went in there, along with the knuckles he'd picked up from the guy outside the Gomorrah, and Swank never saw it coming.

Swank went down in a flutter of shiny sharkskin, so fast he didn't even have time to clutch at his jaw. There was a crunching noise as he felt to the polished floor, and Benny didn't hesitate. He rocked back on one foot, bringing the other into a vicious kick that nailed Swank right in the kidney.

He connected hard, and realized he was smiling. He gave Swank another kick, softer this time but in the face, and heard a crack as his nose broke. A moment passed, and then he crouched down to where Swank cradled his bleeding nose in his hands, eyes bright with surprised tears.

"Whatever we wear, however we do our hair, we're desert people, baby," he said softly, never taking his eyes off Swank's. "And that means we don't settle things by talking. Why don't you take the rest of the day off, and report to my suite first thing in the morning?"

A pained nod from Swank.

Benny stood, turned to Louie, who stood with a shocked expression on his face. Soft, the lot of them, all these years of casino living. But he remembered the desert now; he remembered the hardness that came when the Mojave was in your blood.

"Get me something to wear. I been dieting, so make sure you get me a belt, too. And have one of the girls clean _that_ up." He gestured to where Swank lay, bleeding on the floor.

Lucky Louie stared, eyes blank.

"You hear me, or do I gotta straighten you out, too?" Finally, a nod. "Good. I'm gonna go wash the desert off me."

* * *

Honey wasn't at the Lucky 38. John thought there was a chance she might be with the Followers in Freeside, but there was no way he was ready to risk it, not with the chance that Arcade might be there. It'd be too painful to see him after everything that had happened. Not with the way he was feeling, so strong and so ready to take on everything.

He found himself wandering the streets of Freeside after dark, listening to the whispering of junkies in the alleys and the hiss of the tame mole rat that hung out with the kid at the corner. Nights like this he used to seek out any chems he could, but something about going ghoul felt so good he just didn't feel like it. And then there was a wet nose in his hand and when he looked down, there was Rex, the remaining streetlights winking off the dog's brain case.

"How you doin', boy?" He rifled through his pockets and found a scrap of jerky, which Rex gobbled up. The dog sat back on his haunches and stared at John's pocket, clearly expecting more. "Not right now, buddy."

If dogs could frown, Rex would. As it was, the dog stood and trotted off. John turned and saw the neon sign behind him. The King's and then something along the side of the building that he couldn't quite make out.

Rex pawed at the door and let out a bark, and then the door swung open, operated by a leather-jacketed arm.

Well, since he didn't have anything better to do…

The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. Her head screamed. How long had it been since she took a dose of Med-X?

Honey sat up slowly, turning her aching neck. She was on a couch, in a strange office. A man sat across the room, typing busily at a terminal. He didn't seem to have noticed her. Could she slip out without anyone seeing her?

"Ah, Miss Honey! I see you're awake."

Apparently not.

She rolled her head on her neck, wincing a little as she did so.

"I guess I am," she said, turning so that she could sit with her legs off the edge of the cough. Her head really hurt; it felt like her skull might crack open.

The man at the terminal stood, stretched a little, and walked over to sit in one of the armchairs across from her. "May I offer you some water?"

Before her, on a small table, sat an unopened can of purified water. She frowned at it, trying to figure out how she was going to open it when it felt like her entire body was going to shake apart from the inside. Still, when she reached out and picked it up, her hands looked surprisingly steady. Her fingers only shuddered a little as she popped the cap, and then the water was in her mouth and she started to feel a little better. It wouldn't do anything for her headache, but it was a start.

"Where am I?"

"Why, you're in the NCR Embassy on the New Vegas Strip. Chief Hanlon sent you." The man looked surprised that she didn't seem to know this.

"How'd I get here?" Last thing she remembered was desert, and being furious at Benny.

"Unfortunately, it appears you lost consciousness near Freeside, and the troopers Chief Hanlon set with you had to carry you to us," the man told her. She nodded, then regretted that. Dios, her head hurt. "Our doctor examined you and determined it was likely a combination of your head injury and dehydration. So, water."

She took another drink, swirling the water around in her mouth before she swallowed to keep from sucking it down too fast and making herself sick. She really should know better by now.

"Thank you," she said finally.

"Of course, of course," he said, his hands making a small, fluttery movement that mostly just made her dizzier. Honey closed her eyes; when she re-opened them, he was still there. "I'm Ambassador Crocker."

Ugh. She'd been hoping to avoid this.

Honey finished the last of her water and started to stand. She was unsteady on her feet, but finally got up.

"Well, thank you for your help, but I should really be getting home." She looked around the room slowly. Where was her gear?

"Please, miss, I really think you should sit down for a bit longer." Crocked half-stood, put one hand on her shoulder, and pushed her back to sitting. She went down way too easily, and slumped against the back of the couch. "Besides, we have things to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Like the assassination of Caesar." He looked far too pleased, as if he'd had anything to do with it.

She sighed, rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "What about it?"

"The NCR would like to offer you a position in our military, as well as the Order of the Golden Brahmin for your service." He was beaming. She'd never wanted to punch someone so hard in her life.

"No thanks," she said. Could her things be in that locker over by the door?

Crocker frowned. "Are you sure about that?"

She looked back at him, at the squinty surprise in his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. I got everything I wanted. Caesar is dead, and Hanlon assured me the Mojave would be left alone."

"Well, about that –"

Of course. That explained this meeting. Hanlon'd made a deal he wasn't authorized to, and now they were going to back out, the cabrones.

"About what?"

"The Mojave?" Crocked actually looked nervous. That made her feel a little better. "We can't agree until we're sure the threat of the Legion has been completely neutralized."

This time her sigh was audible, a groan that sounded like the sound an animal might make. "That wasn't the deal."

Crocker had the good grace to look apologetic. Didn't change what he was going to say, she was sure, but at least he knew he was in the wrong here. That was good.

"I'm sorry, Miss Honey –"

"It's just Honey. No 'miss.'"

"Honey, then," Crocker licked his lips. "Until the Legate is disposed of and the dam is safe, I'm afraid we cannot consider the matter of the Mojave solved."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I most certainly am not."

She reached into her pocket, fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Crocker frowned as she lit one – probably no smoking in here, but she didn't give a shit anymore – and said nothing. She blew a plume of smoke to the ceiling, trying to ignore the lightheadedness that settled over her as the nicotine made its way into her body.

"So I take care of the Legate, you pinche bastards get out of my desert?"

For some reason, the memory of Vulpes staring down dozens of his comrades danced behind her eyes. So much sacrifice, even from unlikely corners, and still these grasping assholes didn't have enough. And if it had been anything but the Legate, she'd be inclined to tell them where to put their deal.

But it was the Legate. Even if he killed her, she could take him down, too. It would certainly ensure that everything she'd done wasn't for nothing.

And chickenshit though he was, Benny would take care of the Strip once she was gone.

Crocked nodded.

"Fine, then I'll do it. But I want it in writing this time."


	32. Bang Bang (That Awful Sound)

Way Back Home: Bang Bang (That Awful Sound)

Notes: Content warning for some extremely violent (consensual) sex in this chapter. Part of that scene has been excised and appears on Ao3, as it was more explicit than FFN allows.

Recommended listening, obviously: "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)," by Nancy Sinatra. Also, this is the only chapter in this fic with a song title pulled from a non-Fallout-canon song.

Special thanks to chernobyl907 for pre-reading part of this while was fighting with it, and to Mercenary_bunnies for helping me plot-wrangle. You guys are the tops (sorry, couldn't help it, please don't pelt me with rotten fruit).

* * *

The inside of The King's School of something or other was full of what looked like a dozen of the same guy. Same dark pompadour haircut, same two or three outfits: leather jackets, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up. All of them stood around, leaning against walls or with their arms crossed, smoking and throwing off an attitude of ancient cool. Something about it made John think of the Institute, of the rumors of replacements. Probably the Institute wasn't like this, but it was pretty creepy just the same.

Rex took off, tail held high, and ran through a door to the left. Through the doorway, John could see a stage and some tables. A guy in a flamboyant white jumpsuit stood on the stage, singing something about a hound dog. John watched as Rex ran in, barking happily, to put his paws on the stage.

"And just where do you think you're going?" He swung his head to the right, and there was a man leaning against the doorway, a toothpick hanging from his lips. Helluva looker, too, with his eyes so blue. No Arcade, true, but those bright eyes under that black hair took his breath away all the same. Striped shirt, black jacket with a number on the chest, dark jeans.

"I don't think we've met," John leered, eyes flicking up and down. The guy grunted, shifted his position against the door.

"No, don't think we have." Most people looked away from him now, but this guy didn't. Something about that made John feel a little stronger, a little more human.

"John," he said, extending a hand. The guy in the striped shirt looked at it for a second, then took it and shook.

"Pacer."

"So, what is this place?" Pacer raised a brow, an obviously practiced move, then finally gave a small, choking kind of laugh.

"Ain't from around here, are you?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?"

"Because if you were from around here, you'd know in Freeside, the Kings rule. And the King," Pacer gestured to the man on the stage, who was gyrating his hips in a positively lewd way, the gilded wings under his sleeves shimmering under the stage lights. "The King rules the Kings."

Pacer shifted again, pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, and stuck it in his mouth. A match came out of his shirt pocket, and he struck it against the wall, then touched the flame to the cigarette. The motions were practiced, elegant, enticing. John's mouth seemed to water, though whether for the cigarette or something else he wasn't entirely sure.

"How 'bout you and me go sit down, watch the show."

Pacer smiled around his cigarette, then blew the smoke towards the ceiling. "Don't think so. See, anyone who wants to get in to see the King needs to pay a door fee."

Across the room, the music began to wind down. "How much?"

Pacer's eyes worked over him; clearly he was trying to figure out just how much he could get away with.

"Five hundred."

John laughed, leaned forward, and plucked the cigarette out of Pacer's hand. Took his own drag.

"How's about I pay nothing," he growled pleasantly, openly ogling Pacer now. "And I won't tell my friend Honey about this little shakedown? I hear she and the King are real close."

"Honey? The Courier?" Pacer muttered something under his breath, something unintelligible but obviously a curse. He stepped aside. "Go on in."

"Thanks," John leered, walking through the door.

* * *

Benny stood in the shower for a very, very long time. By the time he got out, his skin was flushed pink from the heat of the water pounding on him and the bathroom was steamed beyond recognition. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the bar in his sitting room. Everything was as he'd left it: the bottles sat on the back counter, with a collection of glassware that had probably been clean at one time but now was covered with a thin layer of dust.

He lifted a glass, puffed lightly to get the dust out of it, and poured in a bit of gin. He swallowed it quickly, grimacing at the piney taste of it, then poured more. Closed the bottle, replaced it on the bar, and walked back to the bathroom.

The steam had faded from the mirror enough so he could see himself. His beard was scraggly, wild, even though the hair was clean now.

First things first.

He pulled out the razor, the soap, a damp towel. Shaving was hard; it was slow and took time if he was going to do it right. Lather, scrape away the hairs going up his neck, rinse, repeat. Over and over again he did it, his mind wandering back to Lucius and his iron bar, to Vulpes and his silver tongue. The two of them, with Baldie watching. The dreams of Mercedes coming for him and the reality of how he'd fucked up when she finally did.

 _Maybe running ain't always a bright idea._

What else was he supposed to do, though? Stick by the side of a gal who couldn't stand him? The chick he shot and left for dead? Might be taking her gun and sneaking off in the night was a little juvenile, but at least now he had something to remember her by.

When his chin was bare again, Benny took another sip of his gin. Eyed himself in the mirror, turning his head first one way and then another. Picked up the small scissors from the vanity and began trimming his hair. Out came the pomade, and before he knew it, the face looking back at him was familiar. Skinny, perhaps a little haunted, but it was definitely him. Dark, suspicious brows over eyes that didn't miss much. High cheekbones, even if they were a little too pronounced right now. A few good meals while he watched the show at the Aces and he'd fill right out again. It'd be fine.

 _He'd_ be fine. He was back where he belonged, after all.

With a frown at his wiry reflection, Benny turned away. He needed to find something to wear now that his favorite suit was completely ruined. No way would they get the blood and dust out of it now. Maybe there was something in one of the closets in his room he could wear until he found something more suitable for the leader of the Chairmen.

The grenade launcher he'd lifted from Mercedes sat propped against one of the wardrobes in his bedroom. Benny glared at it as he pulled a smoke from the pack near the bed. Stupid, giving the evil eye to a thing, but he did it anyway, and he wasn't ashamed.

Not of _that,_ at any rate.

He was starting to feel a little green about leaving her high and dry like that. It wasn't like he'd taken all her gear, but it was pretty clear she'd loved that grenade launcher. The damn thing was special. And he'd lifted it off her without another thought.

Well, that wasn't _entirely_ on the up and up – he'd thought about it plenty since. And now he was even starting to feel guilty, for some goddamn reason.

* * *

Leaving the note hadn't been Plan A. Hadn't even really been Plan B, but it was the best she could come up with when she realized the cabrón at the desk wasn't going to let her upstairs. Asking for Benny got her nowhere, and when she'd asked for Swank, the guy had paled under his tan and shaken his head soberly.

"Swank's not available," he'd said.

"Come on, Louie, it's just me," she'd tried, but he'd shut her down before she could even try batting her lashes.

"Sorry, ain't nobody sees the boss."

So she'd left him a note, cursing him all the while. Cursing the childish way her letters looked on the page, the awkward way she held the pen, the way she couldn't tell if all the letters faced the correct way. It hadn't always been so hard, before he'd killed her. She'd never been much of a reader or writer, but at least she hadn't questioned the way the letters looked before.

It was just proof he'd gone full Strip again; the memory of him, coming out of the desert nearly a decade ago, haunted her. Before the suit and the greased hair; before the stupid nickname and the neon lights of the Strip. Before the stupid jargon and the brahmin dinners. She'd been little more than a girl the first time she'd seen him, one side of him covered in grit and the other caked in blood, following a securitron to the ruins of what had once been a city and was then nothing but a mausoleum.

There was nothing of the Mojave left in him, the maldito coward. He was what House had made him to be and nothing more.

As she swung open the door of the Lucky 38, she knew what was going to happen. If he showed – and she doubted he would – he wouldn't bring the grenade launcher. It'd be an opportunity for his ego to run wild again.

She'd have to knock him down a peg, or maybe five. After what he'd done to her, he fucking deserved it.

* * *

"So, Johnny Diamonds, what brings you here?" The King leaned back in his seat, a small smile on his face. John smiled back, sorting the cards in his hand. All this time he'd been trying to learn to play Caravan and he still didn't quite get it, but Five Card Stud he'd picked up pretty fast. The trick, Honey had told him, was to pretend whatever you had was the best hand that'd ever been dealt.

Hadn't worked so hot on the King, but it seemed to work up until now, and he wasn't one to give up after losing once or twice.

Between them sat a small pile of caps and a couple glasses of whiskey. Behind him, Pacer stood in the doorway; if looks could kill, he'd have burned to ash from the way the guy was staring at him.

"Johnny Diamonds," he said, letting a little growl into his voice. "I like that. Might have to keep that one." He shuffled a card from the front of his hand to the back, frowned at it, and tossed a few caps onto the pile. "I'll raise you…what was that? Five?"

"Five." The King smirked, added five caps of his own. "Still doesn't answer my question."

A sharp one, the King. John liked his outfit, too.

"I guess you could say I was curious." No reason to lie. "I saw Rex coming in here, didn't know what this place was, and wanted to know."

"Not from around here, then."

John laughed. The King dealt him his last card, face down, and John picked it up. A two of clubs. Not remotely helpful. He grunted a little, as if pleased, and knocked on the table with one hand.

"I call," he said, and the King smiled. When they laid their cards on the table, the King's pair of queens firmly beat his own jack high. The King winked at him and began to stack his winnings neatly in a pile before him.

"So you were just wanderin' around and made you way in here?" John nodded. "There wasn't anything you needed?"

"Apparently," John took a sip of his whiskey. "I had too many caps and needed to get rid of some of them."

The King laughed. "I like you, Johnny Diamonds. I haven't met someone who made me laugh like that in a while. Tell you what – I keep my ear to the ground, I know something's coming. I told your little friend, Honey, if she ever needs anything to let me know. After what she did for ol' Rexie here –" at the sound of his name, the dog wagged his tail once on the floor and let out a happy sigh. "I owe her one. But I don't think she's the type to cash in."

"No, she doesn't like to ask for help." John's smile felt a bit grim. "Even when she should."

"So tell you what: if she ever needs anything, you can come and ask for her. No strings attached."

 _He's awfully helpful. Sounds too good to be true._

"Anything?"

"Anything," the King said again, not blinking. His eyes, bright blue as Pacer's, made John think again of the Institute. Any chance all these guys could be synths made to look alike? It sounded crazy, but then again, the whole idea of synths sounded crazy anyway. "I mean it. She's helped me out a jam more than once."

John took the cards, began shuffling. "Alright then. I'll keep that in mind."

The King's face broke out into a smile. "Good. Why don't you deal?"

* * *

"Hey boss, some skirt came by lookin' for you," Louie caught him as he came down the stairs behind the reception desk. Guy's hand shook as he held the note out to Benny. "Left this."

He took it, noting the NCR bear on one corner of the stationery. Probably from the Embassy up the road, but he couldn't for the life of him figure who up there might be writing to him. There was that little piece who worked the desk, but he didn't think so; every time she'd come into The Tops and he'd made a pass at her she'd looked at him like something she'd scraped off her shoe. Couldn't win with every little baby, anyway.

"Chick who brought this, she say anything?" He flicked his eyes up to Louie, shaking in his boots. Must've done a real number on Swank for Louie to still be so nervous.

 _Good. Should remember who's boss now._

"No, boss, just said it was for you." Louie was gone before Benny even turned away from him. The folded paper in his hand had his name on one side in a crooked and inelegant scrawl. Curiosity piqued, he opened it slowly.

Inside, in the same hand and ignoring the evenly-ruled lines down the page, said simply:

 _Give it_ _back_ _. Lucky 38._

 _Honey._

Well, wasn't that cryptic? The idea of meeting some broad he didn't know to return a mystery item in the casino no one ever went didn't thrill him, but it only took a moment before the pieces fell into place. Mercedes; must be going be a new name now.

Something in the note told him she wasn't looking to kiss and make up.

"Hey, Louie?" Louie looked up, nervous as a cat in a room full of rockers. "Dame who dropped this off, she have a scar on her face?"

A nod from Louie. A slick and wondering smile made its way across his face. Maybe he hadn't blown it with her after all. The memory of Mercedes, stinking of desert and desperation after she'd tracked him back here, came to mind. The way she'd looked, still stunning even after she was pulled from her grave, even with the livid red scar he'd given her. The words she'd used, the way she'd come on to him like a dame in a New Reno holo, even though the only thing she'd remembered about him was what he'd done to her.

The casino was hopping but things were running smooth; he could slip away for a while. Benny crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket behind the reception desk. As he made his way to the door, he thought for a moment of going upstairs to get what she'd surely meant by 'it.' Thought about it and then, with a grin, walked out the door just the same.

If it was a fight she wanted, the Ben-man could deliver.

* * *

"He fucking stole Thump-Thump?"

"I loved that thing," Veronica sighed. Looking at her face, Cass let out a giggle. The two of them sat slumped against each other, drinks in their hands. The two of them gaped at her, and Honey felt a pang of irritation at their wide eyes. As if this were some kind of a pinche joke.

She sighed; it wouldn't do any good to get mad at them. Benny was the one who stole Thump-Thump; Benny was the one who deserved to get thumped. And not just that, but for everything. For shooting her in the head like a fucking coward. For never treating her as good as she deserved even before he tried to kill her. For making her wait after she dropped her note. For the way he looked at her, one eyebrow raised; for the way his eyes made her skin tingle.

Honey shook her head. Uncapped the bottle before her and poured some tequila into her glass. This was the good stuff; Cass had found it in the bar upstairs. It was clear, with a silvery tint thanks to the white lights above the Lucky 38's casino bar.

Cass shifted. "You shoulda just gone up there and fucking stolen it back."

 _Yeah, baby, why didn't you come up take back what's yours? Don't you know that's why I stole it?_

That was an uncomfortable thought.

"Cass's right," Veronica chimed in. "He's not going to give it back just because you left him a note."

 _They're right, pussycat. You want something, you take it; waiting for someone to give it to you is a sucker's game._

"Why don't you guys take off, like you planned?" _Oh please, get out of my hair, let me drink in peace._

Honey took a sip of her tequila as the two women looked at each other, then back at her. Tried to keep an innocent, relaxed expression, even though inside she wanted to scream. The headache that had started on her way back to the Strip had barely abated with the dose of Med-X she took when she was done with Crocker – like a junkie in the bathroom of the Embassy – and now she wanted nothing more than to sit, alone in the cool and dark of the casino floor and drink until none of it mattered anymore.

"You sure?" Veronica looked doubtful, even cautious. Or was it worried? What was the right word? She brought two fingers to the bridge of her nose and rubbed the tender skin there. It didn't do much to help the headache, but something about the motion was reassuring just the same.

"I'll be fine," she told them, forcing a smile. "I'll probably go to bed soon anyway. It's been a long week."

Cass raised her brows and took Veronica's hand. "If you insist, I guess we'll go out for a bit." Veronica looked like she wanted to say something, but at the touch of Cass's hand, she closed her mouth again. They didn't say anything more, though Veronica gave her something of a mournful look as they left.

Alone, at last. Honey slumped on her stool, head in one hand, and took a long, lingering sip from her glass. Going upstairs sounded like the best idea but it would involve walking, at least all the way to the elevator and then back out, and that would just be too much work. So instead she sat there, taking slow sips of tequila, and tried to let her mind drift.

Behind her was the squeak of a hinge and a shaft of early evening light on the ragged carpet. Footsteps, and then the door swinging shut. Probably Arcade, or maybe the girls coming back. She didn't bother turning; it had to be one of them, or maybe John. It wasn't like anyone else ever came in here.

But it wasn't.

She lit a cigarette as she waited for whoever it was to walk over; watched the smoke trace its way towards the high, dark ceiling. If she turned around, she'd see it was someone else, but as long as she kept her eyes on the smudged dust on the bar, she could pretend it was him. What did she know? One set of footsteps, so if it was Cass or Veronica, the other had stayed outside. That was unlikely. The gait was too lazy, too slow for Arcade, whose walk was more business-like. It was softer than John's heavy steps. It didn't have the defined clicking of boots on tile; the shoes were softer, quieter, with a subtle squeak to them.

Loafers, she thought as she took a drag from her cigarette. The mirror behind the bar was too smudged to make out her own reflection, let alone anyone else's; all she could see was an ill-defined shape behind her, a smear of white like a ghost.

When the sound of the footsteps was less than ten feet away, he finally spoke.

"Shouldn't let anyone get the drop on you, pussycat."

Around the butt of her cigarette, her lips curled into a smile. So he had come. "D'you bring Thump-Thump?"

He took another quiet step forward.

"I don't know what you mean by that." She could hear the leer in his voice. "But if you're looking for a good thumping, you _know_ the Ben-man can deliver."

With her face still turned away from him, she permitted herself a smile. It wasn't a nice smile. _What a pendejo._

"I thought my note was clear. I want my grenade launcher back."

Benny settled on the stool next to her. She kept her eyes ahead; let him sweat for once. She'd chased after him enough before the bullet. There was the sound of crinkling plastic, then a flash from his lighter, and then a sucking-in of breath. She permitted herself a glance at his arm, at the white fabric of his sleeve. A dinner jacket, it looked like, something Tommy Torini would wear.

There was a vicious part of her that wanted to see it covered in blood.

"Now, baby, you know I can't just go handing back things I've liberated. It's mine now." Benny reached across the bar, picked up a glass and a bottle, and poured some liquor in for himself. Swirled it around, took a sip.

She stayed silent. _D_ _éjalo sudar._

"I suppose you could always…work it off." Definitely no mistaking the leer now, or the small tingle it kindled in her thighs. Still, no reason to let him know about that. She laughed, inhaled her smoke again, blew it back out.

"I think I've done enough for you."

Next to her, he took a sip of his drink, his shoulder bumping hers. No way was that accidental, she thought. No way any of this was. To disguise the shiver that went through her at the thought of what he was really here for, she took another drag of her cigarette. He was doing the same thing now she'd just done to him, letting the silence play out to see what she'd do.

"You've been a very naughty boy," she said finally, keeping her voice flat to negate the more salacious connotations of her words. "Fucking terrible, actually."

"'Never said I was some white knight, baby. You know that." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his hand swirling his glass, the liquor creating small waves and eddies.

He was right. As big an asshole as he was, he'd never lied to her. Not about who or what he was.

"You shot me."

"Singing that song again." He sounded tired. Regretful, even.

"You left me." She smashed her cigarette out in the cut glass ashtray before her.

He sighed. "Didn't have a choice."

"I could've helped you. I _did_ help you."

"Didn't seem right to impose on you again after…well, you know." His cigarette joined hers in the ashtray.

Between them was quiet. There was so much she wanted to say, and none of it kind.

"I wish I hadn't tried to kill you." Finally, there it was, and he even sounded like he meant it, at least more than he had the first time he said it.

She downed the last of her tequila. Stood, only slightly wobbly as she climbed off her stool. Benny glanced back at her over his shoulder. He took a sip of his whiskey and have her a sad half-smile.

"You know what happens next."

"I knew it was too much to hope you'd forgive and forget. Any chance we can settle this the new way?"

Honey laughed. It sounded brittle, as if even her laugh wanted to betray her. She had a pack of cards in her bag but there was no way she was going to go toe to toe with him over a deck.

"Gambling against you? How do I know you won't cheat again?" Somewhere in the back of her head was the report of Maria once, twice. His face as he looked down on her, kneeling drunkenly on the ground before him. The grit of desert under her knees, the smell of her own blood where it matted in her hair. The burning pain where the first bullet had grazed her. Benny sighed again, heavy and tired, and he finished his drink. Climbed off his stool and turned to face her.

 _Truth is, the game was rigged from the start._

His jacket would look so nice with his blood spattered across it, she thought again.

"Baby, getting outplayed and getting cheated ain't the same thing," he told her, pulling at his cuffs to straighten them. As if it mattered now. "Games have winners and losers. I prefer the former, how 'bout you?"

"I'd prefer not to get shot by someone I trust," she tossed back, annoyed. He might've apologized but he didn't look sorry now; a hint of excitement flitted behind his eyes. She flexed her hands, thought of what Regis had told her. Take them by surprise. Use your rage. Conserve your energy. Look around and find things in the environment you can use to your advantage. Have a plan, use what you know of your opponent against them.

 _Maybe Khans kill people without lookin' 'em in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?_

"Pussycat," he started, but he never finished, because Honey wound up and socked him hard in the throat, her right hand connecting with the left side of his neck. Benny's eyes popped a little and he gasped, toppling back into the stools at the bar as he fell; the one he landed on rocked once, then a second time, before he righted.

"Jesus, honey–" Again, she went after him. This time she grabbed him by the shoulders, her fingers tangling in the pristine white of his jacket as she brought his face down on her knee. She missed his nose – was that a blessing or a curse? She'd always loved his nose – but he let out a grunt of pain as his eye connected with her knee. Her hands released after the blow and she stepped aside as he stumbled, trying to regain his footing.

Benny danced back to standing, whipping around to face her. She turned, grabbed one of the glasses from the bar, and hurled it at him. He hopped in the air, barely avoiding the shatter of the cocktail glass as it hit the floor. She flung the other at him a moment later, and this one he didn't quite miss; a small piece of glass sliced into the leg of his pants, just above the hem.

He slipped on the glass, stumbled, and fell hard. Just missed the glass shards but landed hard on one of his knees, then toppled onto the other.

She stepped forward, just out of reach but close enough to grab. "From where you're kneeling, must seem like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck," she said, then kicked at his face.

There was a moment where she could register an expression – sadness? Surprise? Amusement? It happened too fast for her to figure it out, especially with the trouble she had reading people lately, and before she could connect her foot to his head, he grabbed her foot and shoved it back.

This time, Honey fell into the bar. She hit it with the small of her back, hard enough that all the air came out of her at once in a shocked huff. Benny took her stunned moment – gasping, trying to get her breath back – to stand.

"Doesn't have to be like this, baby," he tried, but when he was on his feet again, she flung herself at him.

Her momentum was too strong for him to resist, and he hit the railing behind. They went toppling over it together as one, flipping, and then she realized her mistake. He landed on top of her. Skinny and malnourished, he was still at least as strong as she was. His fingers laced through her hair, and he brought her head down on the floor with a loud crack that dazed her.

"You're holding back," she gasped, and a smirk made its way across his face. He shifted, forcing one of her hands to her side and then the other, kneeling on her elbows.

"You want me to go harder?" His weight atop her made it hard to breathe, or maybe it was the blow to the head. She struggled under him, and he re-settled his weight, pressing down harder on her elbows. One of her pinkie fingers went numb.

"You asshole." She tried not to think of the way her body was betraying her, of the shivering sense of want that coursed through her as she looked up at him. Tried not to think about how this wasn't the plan.

This close, she could smell him too clearly. The scents of soap and pomade, of Abraxo laundry detergent and the metallic whiff of caps. The smells of the Strip, of everything that had denuded him into this weakened version of himself.

"I could do worse," he said, and there was no denying it; the smile on his face made her positively wet. He traced one hand from the top of the scar on her temple to the tip of her chin. She didn't whimper, didn't let out a hint of what she wanted, but she did close her eyes. Maybe that was why the slap took her by surprise. It was a quick, sharp and backhanded hit, hard enough to sting but the heat of it wouldn't linger.

Honey let out a sudden gasp. She opened her eyes to look at him, flexing her fingers. His hands were already at her shirt. He grasped it in both hands, one on each side of the line of buttons down her front, and he ripped. The buttons went flying off, disappearing into the gloom around them.

"Te mato, maldito pendejo," she cursed as his lips came down to the soft skin of her throat. It felt too good, his hands on her, his mouth on her. With his tongue, he traced a circle at the junction of neck and collarbone before he laid his lips there. He sucked, he bit; the meeting of his teeth on her skin drew a traitorous moan from her.

"I love it when you curse at me." His lips split as he grinned against her skin.

"I hate you." _I love you, you pinche bastard._

His fingers pulled at her hair and for a moment she thought he was going to smack her head into the floor again. The thought excited and angered her, but instead he brought his mouth down against hers. He tasted of cigarettes and whiskey; his face was smooth and hairless. It was repellent and wonderful. The last time they'd kissed had been more tentative, as if he'd been worried of spoiling what was happening.

This kiss was different; it was hungry. It _devoured._

"I missed you, pussycat," he pulled away to moan into her ear, his breath tickling her. His lips against her ear made her shudder, and then he sat up. Grabbed her by the sleeves and hauled her to her feet as he stood.

They stared at each other, both panting. Her head still smarted from where he'd hit her skull against the floor, and the ringing in her ears sounded like gunshots.

"You stink of the Strip," she told him, and this time her left fist connected with the tender skin at the underside of his jaw. He tipped to the side, caught himself, and returned her punch, hitting her in the stomach. Again, she lost her breath. Despite herself, she wrapped one arm around her waist, as if that would do anything to dull the pain.

Livid – though with him, or with herself for wanting him? – she rocketed forward, catching him the belly with the top of her head. He flew backwards this time, landing against the rounded wood edge of one of the blackjack tables. His arms flew wide and the top button on his jacket popped off, leaving a stupid gap as he tried to regain his breath.

Honey launched herself forward, thinking inexplicably of the scars on his arm, the ones left from his fight with a gecko. The scars from when he was a product of the desert and didn't belong on this archaic construct, this creature that stunk of the old world. Ripping the jacket off him was harder than she'd thought it would be; it didn't want to come apart easily, but Benny didn't fight her. He let her grab his lapels. He let her pull, wrenching the seams loose before the second and third buttons came off. He let her tug the sleeves off him, let her drop them to the floor.

He let her grab his tie, black silk threaded between her fingers, and let her kiss him. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, waited until he moaned and began moving his hands to her hair again, then bit down. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth; a grunt of pain from him. His hands in her hair, tangled strands in his fingers, and then he yanked back hard, tugging her head back. It made her think of one of the last times they were together before that night in Goodsprings, of the way he'd pulled on her desert-dusty braid.

She brought her hand down on his pants; it was easy enough to aim for his dick, for the half-hearted tent in the front. "Feels like you've gone pretty damn soft to me," she laughed again, not kindly.

He exhaled, winced against her shoulder, then his hand landed on top of hers. Forced hers down against him, and she could feel a twitch in his pants. There it was again, that yearning inside her; it only got worse when licked a stripe up her throat, from collarbone to chin. His teeth made contact with her earlobe, a whisper of what they could do, and a moan came out of her, a loud animal sound that surprised them both.

And so Honey gave in; she gave in to him, she gave in to the craving in the pit of her.

They collapsed back onto the worn green felt of the table.

He didn't smell like the Strip anymore; he smelled of sweat and sex and her, and Honey let out a low, mad giggle. Benny propped himself up slightly, then turned his head to look at her. His smirk had been replaced by a lazy, lascivious smile. She leaned into him, or maybe he leaned into her. Either way, they leaned in to each other and kissed.

It was slower, more deliberate. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, serious.

"I'm on the hook for you, pussycat." His hands worked up to the top of her ribcage, then back down to her naked hips, where they squeezed the flesh there. "I mean it. There's something here. Something big, something top-shelf."

The thought of it made something in her chest flutter. It was too much to think about, to process, and so she leaned in and gave him another slow, languorous kiss. When she pulled back, he smiled at her.

"I know."


End file.
